Dempsey & Makepeace: Art For Art's Sake
by Krato
Summary: When Charlie Sachs, a sculptor at the Weathervane Art Studios goes missing, his government minister father pulls strings to get SI-10 on the case. Dempsey looks forward to his undercover role but Makepeace suspects hers is going to be her toughest challenge yet. *Dedicated to that dirty little tramp, Inga who will be featured later on in this story*
1. Initial Concerns

Gimme your body  
Gimme your mind  
Open your heart  
Pull down the blind  
Gimme your love gimme it all  
Gimme in the kitchen gimme in the hall  
Art for arts sake  
Money for Gods sake  
Art for Arts sake  
Money for Gods sake  
Gimme the readys  
Gimme the cash  
Gimme a bullet  
Gimme a smash  
Gimme a silver gimme a gold  
Make it a million for when I get old  
Art for arts sake  
Money for Gods sake  
Art for Arts sake  
Money for Gods sake  
Money talks so listen to it  
Money talks to me  
Anyone can understand it  
Money can't be beat Oh no  
When you get down, down to the root  
Don't give a damn don't give a hoot  
Still gotta keep makin the loot  
Chauffeur driven  
Gotta make her quick as you can  
Give her lovin' make you a man  
Get her in the palm of your hand  
Bread from Heaven  
Gimme a country  
Where I can be free  
Don't need the unions  
Strangling me  
Keep me in exile the rest of my days  
Burn me in hell but as long as it pays  
Art for arts sake  
Money for Gods sake  
Art for arts sake  
Money for Gods sake  
Art for arts sake  
Money for Gods sake  
Art for arts sake  
Money for Gods sake

**'Art For Art's Sake' - 10cc (1976)**

* * *

Chapter 1

"Good morning, Billy-boy!"

Paul Masters breezed into the small, untidy studio carrying two freshly made cups of tea. The ever-present acrid smell of iron solder filled his nostrils. Not unpleasant exactly but not conducive to the artistic flow as far as he was concerned.

"Alright, Paul?"

Billy Higgins was the youngest in their group at just twenty three. Six foot two and thin as a rake with a mop of shaggy blond hair that set him apart from others of his age group. He wasn't interested in fashion trends nor the _others_ in his age group for that matter. Billy was a bit of a loner; a lovely lad but completely and utterly absorbed in his work.

Paul handed him one of the mugs. "Don't suppose anyone's heard anything from Charlie this morning have they?"

"Nope. Not a dickie bird." Billy offered him a packet of dark chocolate digestive biscuits.

Paul raised his hand to decline. "Bit early in the day for me thanks."

The kid lived on chocolate biscuits.

I'm worried to be honest," he continued. "Not a word for over a week. It just isn't him. I went round to his flat last night on the off-chance. No answer of course.

Billy shrugged. "Is he a missing person now then? Do we tell the police?"

"I'm just wondering if we should speak to that guy who's renting the spare unit. He's a friend of his, isn't he? He might know something."

"Dunno." Billy shrugged again and slurped at his tea. "S'ppose the landlord will have a telephone number or something."

"Yeah, I'll give him a call later on today."

Paul eyed the piece Billy was currently working on appraisingly. "That's really taken shape, I like it, Billy."

"Thanks." He grinned shyly.

It was a sailboat, roughly two feet in length and including the dramatically sweeping steel sail, two feet in height. Sunlight from the one small window streamed across the bench to hit the thing directly and it glowed like pure silver.

Paul nodded. "Beautiful. I really like it."

"Think I'll have it finished by the end of the week."

"Commission piece isn't it?" Paul asked.

Billy reached for another biscuit and gazed lovingly down upon his work. "Yeah. Least I can pay the rent this month. Might even be able to eat too."

Paul clapped him on the shoulder. "You're destined for greatness, Billy-boy. Trust me," he laughed, turning towards the door. I'll give our illustrious landlord a ring then, see if I can get that number out of him.

* * *

The following morning began with a slight haze, foretelling a hot and humid day to come.

Sir Malcolm Sachs had breakfasted in the garden, allowing himself a second cup of tea and lingering over it long enough to complete The Times crossword.

By the time he had forced himself to go indoors and so to his small ground floor office next to the reception room it was already a little after nine-thirty.

He had this morning's post to contend with which his wife Valerie had already placed on the desk for him and there was also that damned speech to write for his Westminster visit on Friday.

Taking up the letter opener, he sliced open the first envelope on the pile.

Before he had even had chance to remove the contents, the telephone rang.

"Sir Malcom Sachs, speaking."

"Good morning, Sir Malcolm," came the soft but confident tones. "This is Christopher Montgomery. I don't know if you remember me at all but we've…"

"Ah, yes but of course, Charlie's friend! We met at the gallery exhibition in May if memory serves."

"Indeed we did," Christopher confirmed.

"And your rather lovely wife, too."

"Odette, yes that's right."

The introductions over with, Christopher Montgomery jumped straight in with his question.

"I was wondering, Sir, if you've seen anything of Charlie recently?"

"I spoke to him a couple of weeks ago," answered Sir Malcolm and then with a tiny trace of barely considered concern, "Why do you ask?"

He saw the gardener arrive through the window, ambling up the garden path that bisected the lawns to the back of the house. He looked quite comical dressed in a t-shirt, long baggy shorts and heavy workman's boots. His skinny little legs appeared to dangle from the shorts. Still, at seventy-three, George was no doubt past really caring what he looked like.

"It's probably nothing," Christopher continued, "but nobody's seen or heard from him in over a week. I got a call from someone at the Weathervane Studios yesterday asking if I knew where he was. Apparently they're a bit worried – wanted to know if I knew where to contact him. He isn't answering the phone and isn't at his flat. I tried him myself on Saturday… wanted to finalize things with him before I move into my unit at Weathervane next week."

Sir Malcolm gently pushed the pile of envelopes forward, unconsciously clearing his desk and so his mind of everything else.

"Have you tried any of his other friends?"

"Everyone I can think of but no one's heard a thing. I eventually got your number through a friend of a friend but I was really hoping I would've tracked him down before now."

"Well you certainly did the right thing in ringing me Christopher."

It wouldn't be the first time his son had got himself into a bit of a scrape and Sir Malcolm couldn't help but fear the worst. "I'll ring round the family. There's a family friend in France he might have gone to."

Christopher was sceptical. "Without telling a soul?"

"Give me your number and I'll call you back later on today."

He relayed his phone number. "Look, I don't know if this is at all relevant but his work is going great guns at the minute. He's selling his stuff faster than he can keep up. Why disappear now when everything's going his way? He's been really buoyed up the last few weeks, said he's finally got the break-through he's been looking for."

"Really? said Sir Malcolm. "I didn't know that."

**So that was just a bit of scene-setting. If I was you I'd be thinking, 'but I want to read about Dempsey & Makepeace!' ... which is why I'm going to post Chapter 2 later tonight ;-)**


	2. Eight And A Half Months

Chapter 2

"Sir Malcom Sachs. Anybody heard of him?"

"Something to do with the Foreign Office isn't he?" suggested Sergeant Harriet Makepeace.

"Right," said Chief Superintendent Spikings, not taking his eyes from the whiteboard as he scrawled the name down. "Not a particularly big name but his current plight has been forwarded on to SI-10 all the same.

"And what plight might that be, Sir?" Makepeace asked.

Spikings flipped open the blue manila file on the table beside him, drawing off the top sheet of paper from the stack. "I'm getting to that Sergeant," he said testily.

He Blu-tac'd the photograph to the board.

"His son; Charlie Sachs, thirty-three, a sculptor and missing for the last nine days."

He wrote this name down too.

"So the angle we're going with is his place of work, Weathervane Art Studios in Battersea."

Spikings began handing out photocopied briefing notes.

"Charlie Sachs is a freelance artist. He has one of the six units for his sculpting studio. The others are occupied by Billy Higgins, a twenty-three year old metal artist. Gloria Freeman-Kelty, fifty-six and a patchwork quilter," he said with a certain amount of contempt as though this couldn't possibly be seen as a serious profession. "Paul Masters, thirty-seven year old painter and Jenna farmer, twenty-eight. She designs and produces jewellery. They all rub along together allegedly, in and out of each other's units, bouncing their arty idea off one another and borrowing cups of sugar." He tweaked at his moustache as he glanced down at his notes. "In fact, it was them set the ball rolling, reporting Mr Sachs as missing."

Chas Jarvis raised his hand tentatively. "That's only five units accounted for, Sir, you said there were six."

"Very true, Chas but no points, nobody likes a clever-dick."

He smiled to himself and again addressed his team.

"The sixth unit is empty. However, as of next Monday, it's due to be taken on by one Christopher Montgomery, also a sculptor. He's a friend of Charlie Sachs and it was he who contacted Sir Malcolm about his disappearance after one of the Weathervane lot got in touch with him."

Lieutenant Jim Dempsey who had been surprisingly quiet up until this point, kicked back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, letting the hand holding the briefing notes fall to his side.

"C'mmon, Chief! This is a bunch of arty-schmarty hippy dropout potheads we're dealin' with here, right? The guy's gonna be holed up someplace droppin' acid for inspiration."

A few amused snorts and titters ran around the room.

"You know, Dempsey, for once I'm inclined to agree with you. However, plod has failed to find our man and rather than being the long haired layabout we might imagine, Mr Sachs has built himself a respected reputation within his field."

Dempsey still wasn't convinced. "And he does what – sculpts stuff?"

"Indeed he does."

A series of photographs was passed around.

"He works in plaster of paris to create, errrrm…" Spikings spoke sarcastically, "…his art."

"Is that a briefcase?" Dempsey asked with disbelief.

"Got a telephone 'ere," laughed Frank, handing the photograph on.

Dempsey grabbed it from him, smiling as he caught sight of the printing on the reverse. "Yep, certified freakin' fruitcake," he grinned. "Purr! How the hell he get 'Purr' outta that?"

"It's a personal tag, Dempsey," Makepeace informed him quietly. "It means something to the artist and when we find him, you'll be able to ask him, won't you"?

"You into this shit?" he wanted to know.

She shook her head. "Not particularly my thing but you shouldn't dismiss it out of hand."

"I ain't! I'm dismissin' it outta the door with my boot up its ass."

There was a rumble of laughter and Spikings called for everyone to settle down.

The briefing lasted another forty minutes during which time various scenarios were gone through and discussed.

"Anyway Dempsey," said Spikings, "I'm afraid you're going to have to actively embrace all of this for the next few days. Christopher Montgomery joins their little clan on Monday and you, my son, will be going undercover to mingle with the weird and wonderful artisans of London Town."

"Hey, I can feel my creative juices flowin' already."

Makepeace sat up expectantly. "And what about me, Sir?"

Surely she was better placed than Dempsey to enter into the art world, she knew one or two artists, knew that they could be temperamental and so therefore usually needed treating with kid gloves - something Dempsey wasn't comfortable wearing.

"You, Makepeace?" Spikings smiled broadly. "You are his muse." He dragged the last word out humourously.

"Sir?" She was more than a little worried.

"His wife. Odette Montgomery is also his model. She's all he sculpts so I'm told."

With relish, he handed out another sheaf of photographs. "I must say, I much prefer this to Sachs' stuff."

There were four photos in all, each depicting a different statue of the same nude female form, artistically posed.

The boys showed their appreciation as boys do, making Makepeace seethe with irritation.

"Did I ever mention how much I love my job?" Dempsey quipped.

Tasks were metered out to some of the other officers, mostly involving the tracking down of Charlie Sachs and Dempsey and Harry waited, knowing there would be a summons for them to Spiking's office shortly.

Sure enough, the nod came and they followed Spikings through to his inner sanctum.

The Chief sat down behind his desk and lit himself a cigarette.

"So, as I said in the briefing, Christopher Montgomery says Sachs has been selling an awful lot of his work lately. The people renting the other units all say the same thing; carriers turning up once or twice a week to pick up consignments. His paperwork all seems to have been disposed of though which in itself is fishy. We'll be finding out what carriers have been used of course and where these consignments are being sent."

"Are we looking at a possible drugs angle?" Harry asked.

"Could be. Sir Malcolm admits that his son isn't exactly an angel. Had to bail him out of a pretty heavy gambling debt last year."

Dempsey nodded. "So we're goin' in there as mister and missus and nobody at Weathervane Art Studios has ever met us before. You think somebody knows more than they're lettin' on?"

"That's what you're going to find out. You're there to ask questions find out about the buyers if you can, who else these people mix with, anything that might lead you to Sachs'."

"Yeah, we can do that, Boss," Dempsey confirmed, "only I got one small problem with my cover."

"And what's that?"

"Like, I know Harry's gonna be just great at lyin' around naked, but I ain't no artist."

Makepeace cast him a deprecatory glance although she herself was eager to know how they would get around that issue.

Spikings flicked ash into the large glass ashtray and took a drag before he answered.

"Mr Montgomery is happy to oblige us with that little problem. He and his wife will be going to the studios at night to put in a few hours for us. And during the day, no one will actually witness you 'at work' anyway given the fact that your wife is in a state of undress when she's modelling."

"Okay, that's cool," Dempsey conceded with a slight smirk in Makepeace's direction.

Makepeace tapped the pen she held against her lips as she considered their next few days. "So what exactly is our aim, Sir? I get the impression it's more than just Charlie Sachs' whereabouts you're expecting us to uncover."

Dempsey folded his arms, chuckling as he leaned against Harry. "You catch that little play on words there, Chief? Uncover!"

Makepeace rolled her eyes. "I fear this is going to be a somewhat testing operation," she said with deliberate pomposity.

"Hell, I'm lookin' forward to it. This Montgomery guy sounds like the kinda dude I can really connect with, ya know?" he grinned. "I too spend each and every day in appreciation of the female form."

Spikings seemed inordinately amused by Dempsey's comment. "I know you do, Dempsey. And you're going to learn to appreciate it in _all_ its glorious forms."

He reached down to the bottom drawer of his desk and drew out a large glossy hardback book entitled, 'Classical Sculpture'. "Bit of essential reading for you, sunshine."

"Gee, thanks."

Makepeace had a look across. "Rodin. I love that piece," she smiled, looking at the image on the dust jacket."

"Yeah? Well how 'bout you read it for me and fill me in on the need-to-know."

"I don't think so," smirked Spikings. "Sergeant Makepeace is going to be busy with some required reading of her own."

After delving back into the drawer, he slid another book across the desk.

Harry's expression was a study in bemusement as she read the title aloud. "The Essential Guide to Pregnancy And Childbirth." She frowned. "I don't understand, Sir." She looked to Dempsey for help, wondering if it made any more sense to him.

Spikings' moustache twitched as he sat back. A thin plume of cigarette smoke drifted upwards from the hand that was resting on the arm of the chair.

"Odette Montgomery is eight and a half month pregnant," he beamed.

**Hope that's given you food for thought ;-)**

**Don't forget to review - you know how much I love your feedback.**


	3. Things That Go Bump

**So I'm uploading this just 20 minutes before I leave to catch my train for London. Another #BrandonBabes weekend to see Singin' In The Rain for the umpteenth time! I can't wait to meet up with everyone again.**

Chapter 3

"I can't do it," Makepeace protested with a childish surliness as she lumbered her way out of the changing room. "It's just ridiculous! I can barely walk."

Carol Chivers, the proprietor of the Keeping It Real Specialist Props Agency in the West End came up behind her to heft up the wide, padded shoulder straps of the empathy pregnancy vest.

"It'll be fine, my darling. It's just a question of getting used to it. Don't forget, most women have had eight and a half months to build up to this stage."

"But it's so heavy!" Makepeace exclaimed. "It can't possibly be this heavy in reality, pregnant women would be collapsing in the streets!"

Carol smiled happily. "Oh it is I'm afraid. We make all our props as authentic as we possibly can and at this late stage of your third trimester you could expect to be carrying an extra two stone in weight. It varies of course from lady to lady but on average, this would be the correct size and weight."

Makepeace studied herself critically in the full length mirror, her hands running over the flesh coloured quilted polyester casing of the bump. The popped out navel was just weird and whilst the padded cups made her breasts appear at least two sizes bigger, they just looked matronly without a proper waist to compliment them.

A peculiar rasping squeak focused both the women's attention on Dempsey who had made himself comfy some time ago in one of the large, elaborate 'throne' chairs stationed outside the fitting room.

Makepeace scowled at her partner who was literally bent double and laughing so hard he couldn't actually breathe.

"Oh shut up, Dempsey," she snapped. "It isn't funny. It's a bloody nightmare."

He raised his head to speak but just couldn't force anything out. His face was flushed and distorted and tears streamed down his cheeks to drip on the vermillion red carpet. But as is often the case, his uncontrollable laughter was contagious and Carol Chivers began laughing too.

"I certainly don't envy you, especially in this warm weather."

"You look like a freakin' whale that's grown legs!" Dempsey roared.

"And you sound like an ape that's grown an opinion!" she fired back angrily.

Harry realised that she'd never witnessed Dempsey laughing quite so hard and so freely and for a moment she studied him curiously. She rather liked it.

"You need to be careful," Carol told him, still laughing herself, "Harry would be well within her rights to throw a hormonal strop you know."

Dempsey thrust up from the chair, turning away from them both with his right arm extended out as though to hold them at bay as he choked on his laughter.

Despite herself, Makepeace now felt the urge to laugh too. It had nothing to do with her own predicament though, it was just the sight of Dempsey on the verge of hysteria.

"Alright," said Carol, trying to stay professional, "a bit of a practice walk up and down and then some bending and sitting to get you used to it."

Harry directed the huge pregnancy bump at the opposite wall and attempted to walk normally. She had never felt so ungainly in her entire life.

"Now I know it isn't easy," Carol giggled, "but try to walk the way the bump is making you walk, not the way you want to walk. Let your feet turn out…that's it, let yourself waddle, that's right and don't arch your back because you'll finish up with awful backache by the end of the day."

Makepeace gave in to the bump, her feet splayed out at ten to two and her pace slow and steady.

"You're doing really well, darling," Carol encouraged.

"Yeah, you've taken to it like a duck to water, Harry." Dempsey collapsed again in a fit of laughter.

Carol flashed him a grin but then turned back to Harry, placing a supportive hand upon her arm. "Now over to the chairs and try sitting down, my love."

Lumbering unsteadily, Makepeace made it to the two throne chairs, grabbing onto the ornate gold lacquered back of the closest one and manoeuvring herself around it.

"I'm warning you," she grated, not even needing to look at Dempsey to know he was still in melt-down.

Air wheezed out of him and as Harry grasped the chair arm with one hand and tried to hoist up the pregnancy bump with the other, he made a sort of ratchety noise in his throat.

"It'll get easier, darling," Carol promised, laughing along with Dempsey over Harry's head. "And up again…"

Harry levered herself out of the chair awkwardly. "God, we need to get this case done and dusted very, very soon."

"Well I think this could be a bit of an incentive," said Carol with a sympathetic smile. She looked across at Dempsey. "And remember, Jim, you need to play your part too. You're the father-to-be; sympathetic, considerate, doting… not laughing your socks off every time you look at her."

Dempsey held his hands up. "I know, I know. It's gonna be a challenge is all I'm sayin'." He looked at Harry who was clasping both hands to her fake belly, a pained expression on her face and laughed out loud again, shaking his head.

Carol rolled her eyes and tutted. "Honestly, I can see you blowing your cover if you carry on like this."

"You're really not helping," Harry told him. "Did I laugh when you had your Jewish diamond merchant get-up?"

"Hey, there's nothin' funny about turnin' seventy three inside the space of two hours," he defended.

"And that prosthetic nose was hilarious but did I laugh at you, Dempsey? No, because it was a serious undercover operation and I knew it was important that you got into the role and the mind set."

Carol tutted again. "How you two manage to work together is beyond me."

Dempsey came up behind Makepeace, reaching round to hold the pregnancy bump. "Me and the missus rub along just fine," he pushed his cheek up against hers, "isn't that right, honey?"

She couldn't help but laugh then but pulled his hands away and extricated herself from his grasp all the same. "Go and practice your part on some other sumo wrestler, I'm feeling nauseous and it's got nothing to do with morning sickness."

Carol took Harry's hand to move her away from the chairs. "Alright, my love, let's have a go at something else. Jim, what have you got in your pocket?"

"It's just the way I walk, I swear!" he said, the epitome of innocence.

She laughed. "No, I mean your wallet, car keys, loose change, something like that."

Hi slipped his hand into the pocket of his beige Chinos and pulled out a set of car keys.

"These do ya?"

"Lovely. Just pop them down on the floor there."

He tossed them down and grinned at Harry. "Go get 'em partner."

She looked at them with disgust. "This is way above and beyond the call of duty," she complained as she stooped to retrieve the keys.

"Bend your knees, darling, not your back, you need to keep your centre of gravity."

But Harry was leaning too far forward and the heavy weights strapped to her front caused her to loose her balance, landing on all fours on the floor.

Dempsey let out a high pitched howl of laughter. "You're killin' me babe, seriously, you're killin' me," he groaned.

"Many a true word spoken in jest," Makepeace ground as Carol dragged her up, flushed and embarrassed. "Maybe you'd like to try this bloody thing on, see how _you_ like it."

"Nah, that's woman's work," he goaded, popping a stick of gum into his mouth and grinning as he chewed.

"Okay, have another go, my love, and then some more walking and sitting. I've got a pamphlet you can take away with you with the instructions and diagrams and there's care instructions for the bump itself. You'll need some maternity wear too of course but we can pick that out before you go.

In the event there was very little choice of maternity clothing and even less available in her sizing.

"Don't worry," she told Carol, "I'll get something in town; Spikings will foot the bill. Or failing that, I'll take down my Laura Ashley bedroom curtains and run up a smock or two," she said gloomily.

* * *

Dempsey carried their would-be offspring out to the car park and dumped it into the boot of the Mercedes.

"You can drop me on the high street," said Makepeace coolly.

"You don't want me to come with?"

"No thank you," she clipped. "I'll see you back at the office later."

"You sure? You don't need me to help pick out nursing bras and nipple shields?"

"Not funny." He could tell from her dejected tone that Makepeace had reached her limit – she'd had enough.

"Okay, babe. No more wise-cracks. This is a big thing you're doin', ha? Gotta admit, it's a strange one, not the kinda undercover you'd ever expect to be doin'." He glanced across as she fastened her seatbelt. "An' that fat suit weighs a ton!" he commiserated.

"Will you…" Makepeace shrilled, on the point of lashing out but then she made herself calm down and put her head back on the headrest, "…will you just drive?!


	4. The Get Go

**Today is angie86's birthday so this chapter is dedicated to her. Sorry it isn't particularly sparkling Angie - would've preferred chapter 3 to have been yours ;-)**

Chapter 4

It was one of the most unpleasant weekends of her life.

It began early on Saturday morning when her best friend, Angela Carstairs arrived to fasten her into the bump before they set off for a stroll around the Portobello Road Market in the sunshine.

Angela's initial amusement was supplanted with concern at the toll the pseudo pregnancy was taking on her friend.

Harry drove there, unfettered by a seatbelt but imprisoned behind the steering wheel and she struggled with turning and almost gave up on parking altogether.

She managed to lumber around the market stalls for three quarters of an hour, sweating with the heat and exertion until Angela decided enough was enough and insisted they sat and had a cold drink in a nearby café.

It was a beautiful day and it seemed that everyone wanted to be out in it. Everywhere was busy but they got a seat without a problem when two middle aged ladies noticed them enter the café.

"You look done in, love," one of them exclaimed.

The other agreed. "Oh you poor thing, look at you! Sit yerself down 'ere and take the weight off. You don't need that baby putting in an appearance just yet."

Harry had protested at first but the ladies were adamant and reluctantly she had had to accept the offer, answering their questions about her pregnancy and making up spur-of-the-moment baby names. She felt ludicrously guilty, the deception having an unexpected effect on her psyche. The poor women were completely fooled and it didn't seem fair.

At lunchtime they found an upmarket little brasserie where Harry, feeling the pressure, ordered a bottle of white wine the moment the waiter appeared.

"God, I can't manage a bottle to myself," Angela declared pointedly.

Harry looked at her curiously for a split second before it dawned.

"A glass isn't going to hurt, Angela," she smiled sweetly.

Angela smiled back just as sweetly. "If you're sure, darling."

"Oh, I am."

She couldn't remember the last time she had _needed_ a drink quite so badly but she was willing to bet Dempsey would've had something to do with it whenever it was.

She didn't go out on Saturday night despite having made plans the previous weekend. She used the excuse that she was working – which she was in a sense.

As Carol Chivers, the props specialist lady had recommended, Harry went to bed wearing the bump. She didn't manage more than an hour's sleep at a stretch and got up in a foul mood Sunday morning. After struggling for almost half an hour to prise apart all the Velcro fastenings, she sank gratefully into a luke warm bubble bath and drifted off to sleep.

She was awoken at 10:00am by the doorbell and once Angela had got her back into the bump, it all began over again.

* * *

The Montgomerys lived in a villa style property on the edge of Richmond Park. It was clear they had money and lots of it.

Dempsey whistled softly as he got out of the car, gazing up at the white stucco building.

"Nice pad. They got some quids, huh?"

"Quid isn't interchangeable with bucks, Dempsey and anyway, _quid_ doesn't have a plural."

"Does if I say it with an 'es' at the end."

"Alright, whatever you say," she said punctiliously, using the hand he was offering to pull herself up and out of the car. They were in a pool car and he was driving – she just couldn't face it.

They entered the pillared portico and Dempsey yanked down on the black iron bell pull.

The door opened after a minute or so and they were greeted by a tall, slim blond man wearing a pair of baggy, worn jeans and a faded dusty blue t-shirt with a 7-Up logo on the front. His feet were bare and he had at least a days' worth of stubble on his chin.

"Hi, Mister Montgomery?" asked Dempsey uncertainly.

"That's me – Christopher," he smiled, standing aside as he spoke.

"I'm Lieutenant Jim Dempsey, this is…" he began, indicating Makepeace beside him.

"Jim and Harry, I know," he smiled. "Please, come in."

He reached out to shake Dempsey's hand as he crossed the threshold. "I'm Christopher."

When he took Harry's hand, he hung onto it for a moment as he stared down at her swollen belly concealed within a lightweight pale denim maternity dress.

"That's amazing! I'd never believe that wasn't the real thing. You look exactly the same shape as my wife," he marvelled.

"Certainly looks authentic doesn't it?" Harry grimaced as she looked down at it herself.

"Now, come through and meet Odette."

They followed him down the wide, opulent hallway, taking in the black marbled floor, the smooth white walls and the series of large steel plate art designs ranged along the walls. Huge white stone pots containing aloe vera plants were placed at intervals, adding an interesting splash of colour.

"Nice place you got here," said Dempsey, thinking it actually resembled a hotel lobby.

Makepeace, who had been thinking exactly the same thing turned her head and caught the look that confirmed their agreement on the subject.

"Jim and Harry have arrived, O," he called, turning into a massive living room area. Here, the walls were soft grey, giving the illusion of even more space. The floor was of glazed terracotta tiles and the furniture was all black wood. The sofas, two black leather Chesterfields stretched out like long black wings down the centre of the room and a series of oil paintings adorned the walls, like the pieces in the hallway, obviously all by the same artist. These were in strong, vibrant shades; red, green and turquoise, abstract but with bold, clearly defined shapes. Whilst Harry could appreciate it, she knew she wouldn't be able to live somewhere like this; it was too well thought out, too calculated to be comfortable in.

She watched as Dempsey went to greet Odette who was sitting on the end of the sofa nearest to them, a book at the side of her.

"Hi, Mrs Montgomery…hey, don't get up." He laughed as she pushed herself up straight. "I know how hard it is." He looked toward Makepeace with a grin.

She was very good looking, her skin glowing and her hair a glossy chestnut brown that she wore fastened at the sides with red combs. She had on a pair of leggings and a plain green top that wasn't made for pregnancy. It fitted her like a second skin, clinging to her swollen breasts and abdomen in a way that screamed for attention.

Dempsey regarded her with a fascinated male curiosity, Makepeace with slight repulsion. She must be one of those new age hippy types who believed in flaunting what mother nature bestowed upon them and making sure everyone around was given the opportunity to appreciate the miracle of female reproduction. Makepeace averted her eyes from the popping belly button and shook hands politely.

"It's extremely good of you both to postpone your starting at Weathervane Studios," she said.

"Not at all," said Montgomery. "Nothing's really changed as far as we're concerned, we'll just be working in the evenings rather than daytime and if it helps to find Charlie…"

Odette rolled her eyes at her husband before turning to Harry and Dempsey. "I can't imagine I'll be working for much longer anyway! And at least now Christopher's being forced to hand the attic studio over to the decorators, this baby stands a chance of getting a nursery." She smiled. "Don't be fooled by his calm exterior. He's been worrying like mad about the removals. It's driving him insane that he won't be able to oversee the installation at the other end."

"This is true," Montgomery admitted wryly. "I've used these guys before for several exhibitions but it's always a worry."

"I gotcha," agreed Dempsey, "one wrong move and…" he made a diving motion with his hand and voiced a simulated explosion.

"Mmm, 'fraid so," Montgomery winced. "I've given very specific instructions of course. I know the layout of the place. I went over there a few weeks ago when Charlie showed me around the empty unit but relaying it to someone else is another matter."

"Ahh, hold on there," Dempsey said worriedly. "When were you at the studio? Who saw you? If anyone saw you, our cover's blown before we've even gotten started."

Odette wriggled to the edge of the sofa and stood up slowly. "No one saw us. It was after everyone had gone, it was just us and Charlie."

Dempsey seemed to be hovering, distracted by Odette's condition.

"I'll get us some drinks whilst we're waiting for the removal van," she said brightly.

"You don't need to do that," Dempsey jumped in, "we're okay."

Makepeace gave him a withering look. "Odette's pregnant, Dempsey, not disabled.

Odette laughed. "Whereas it's practically the opposite for you, Harry. Must be strange for you, to suddenly find yourself heavily pregnant. It looks fantastic by the way."

"Certainly doesn't feel it," Harry said dismally.

"Have you got children?"

Makepeace felt herself blanch slightly from the personal question. It was a perfectly natural question to ask under the circumstances but still, this was an investigation and her private life wasn't up for discussion.

"No, no children," she said lightly and then reverting to the previous subject, "A glass of water would be nice. Shall I come and give you a hand?"

She knew she would probably be putting herself in the firing line for more questioning but it wouldn't seem as bad without Dempsey there, soaking it all up like a sponge and using her answers as ammunition for his jibes at a later date.

A little voice in her head had been asking questions of herself this weekend as well. The truth hurt she realised.


	5. Studio Two

**Di - Spot the pinch ;-)**

Chapter 5

Dempsey and Makepeace travelled in convoy with the removal men from the Montgomery's house to the Weathervane Studios.

Dempsey had made himself useful assisting Montgomery with the smooth transfer of the carefully labelled boxes of tools and associated paraphernalia and had also gleaned a little background information in the meantime. Montgomery was vacating his spacious attic studio to make way for the baby's nursery apparently. Dempsey got the impression that he wasn't too keen on the idea but Odette was insisting. It sounded like she wanted to keep work and home separate which with a baby on the way, he could understand.

"You get to talk to Odette about Charlie Sachs?" Dempsey asked.

They hadn't spoken for a few minutes and Makepeace seemed to be in a world of her own, gazing out of the passenger side window.

"I brought his name up, of course. Seems he's much more his friend than hers. She described him as a bit of a Jack the Lad and when a woman describes a man as a Jack the Lad, nine times out of ten it means she really doesn't care for him very much."

"He's a player?"

"I think that's what she was saying."

They lapsed into silence again until Dempsey asked, "Is it maybe just me or does he seem a little too pally to you? The second he opened the door to us, ya know, it was, 'Hi Jim and Harry!' like we're close personal friends, not police detectives investigating a disappearance."

"S'ppose it's just his way," she said distractedly.

"I dunno, somethin' about the guy I don't like, ya know?"

"It doesn't make him a bad person."

"And whadya make o' her?"

"I think she likes to pretend they're fine, that they're on a level footing but in actual fact, she's under the thumb."

"Yeah?"

Makepeace reached forward and adjusted the air vent so that the luke warm air was directed at her.

"Course I could be wrong but I don't think so. I also got the impression he wants the baby more than she does."

Dempsey glanced at her, eyebrows raised in surprise. "Nah, I'd have said it was the opposite way around. It was her wanted him to take this studio so's she can turn his workspace into a nursery."

"She told me the baby was his idea. She sounded a bit disillusioned with it all to be honest, said her body is a temple at the moment as far as Christopher is concerned."

Dempsey signalled left and put his foot down in pursuit of the removal van which had got too far ahead of them whilst they talked.

"Ain't that a thing with pregnant chicks; they get weepy and lose the plot once in a while?"

"I expect so."

She'd felt rather weepy herself during the course of the weekend and she was only pretending to be pregnant.

"You expect so?" he grinned. "You should of read the literature Spikings gave ya from cover to cover by now."

"I tried, Dempsey but believe me, it makes for quite stomach-churning reading from about page twenty three."

He laughed. "You sure got given a raw deal this time, ha?"

"Tell me about it!" she cried. "I've been a southern belle, a reporter, a barmaid and a hooker to name but a few covers and to be honest, I think I played the roles admirably. But this!" She jabbed a finger into the bump with force. "This raises things to a whole new level."

Did he detect a hint of hysteria bubbling just below the surface? For the first time ever, he had concerns over her ability to handle a case. He couldn't quite work out what it was with her. Was she scared she couldn't do it, that she'd blow her cover? But hell, what was to blow? She didn't have to 'do' anything other than wear that fat suit and talk about swollen ankles and baby strollers.

"You'd of had me convinced, Babe. Seriously, I don't see what the problem is, you're doin' great."

He was right, it should be so easy. She was struggling physically with the bump but she'd done the research and knew the theory. She'd also read how an expectant mother might potentially feel; the highs and lows of pregnancy and the emotional toll. That was what she couldn't get to grips with, the emotional side of it and trying to take on board her own very personal emotions at the same time. She was thirty years old now and a part of her was asking why this experience wasn't real.

* * *

They pulled up outside the Weathervane Studios at just before 10:00am. It was situated on a wide cobbled side street and it put Dempsey in mind of an old Victorian England; its tightly squeezed, tall, narrow buildings with their broad window ledges and deeply slanted slate roofs, leaning in towards each other.

Their unit was ground floor back and after a quick word with the removal men, Dempsey agreed they should meet around the rear of the building where he could gain them entry.

They entered into a small, stuffy and dusty hallway and found themselves in a reception area of sorts with a newish looking pair of block reception seats in a neutral oatmeal fabric joined together by a matching wood topped table. Two fans of leaflets had been splayed upon it, a quick glance from Makepeace determining they were advertising forth-coming events within the art world.

Along the back wall stood a desk bearing several clear perspex literature holders containing leaflets about each individual artist within the studio.

Dempsey slammed the flat of his hand down on the brass desk bell next to the notice taped to the desk which read 'Please Ring For Attention'.

"Service!" he said quietly, gazing slowly about him.

Within seconds it seemed, a well presented, matronly woman of roughly sixty appeared, a smallish white, dish mop of a dog at her heels.

"Oh, hello!" she beamed, her brassy golden curls bobbing as she took a surprised step back. "It isn't Mr Montgomery is it?" she asked, focussing on Dempsey.

"Yes, that's right. Just moving in , Missus…?"

The New York accent had morphed into something far more cultured, bordering on Bostonian.

"… Freeman-Kelty… Gloria," she smiled as she shook his hand.

"Well Gloria, I'm Christopher, this is my wife, Odette and we're both very pleased to meet you."

"Goodness me, I see we really don't have long to wait for the patter of tiny feet," said Gloria, taking Makepeace's hand in both of hers.

"No, that's right. Just another couple of weeks to go." She smiled nervously. "August the twenty seventh so I'm told."

The dog wandered restlessly in a circle.

"Goodness me," she repeated. "Boy or girl?"

The real Montgomerys were having a boy so they had decided to stick with that. Their choice of name however, was not one Harry was happy about repeating so rather than admitting to the horribly pretentious 'Angelo', she had decided to abstain.

Predictably though, Gloria followed up with this name question and Harry was obliged to give her non-committal response, feeling Dempsey's eyes on her.

"So, Gloria…" he put his arm around Harry, "you and Odette are going to have to excuse me while I go and open up for the removal guys. There's one heck of a lot of stuff they have to set up for us in the studio."

The dog was sitting down now and looking up at his mistress expectantly.

"Yes, I must let you get on. And I think poor Frobisher won't be able to keep his legs crossed for much longer. I only popped down to take him for a little walk outside you see."

She moved off. "But I'll come down and have a little chat with you both later. And I can't wait to see your work. Charlie told us all about it. I think it's so lovely, creating art out of unborn life," she fluttered.

Frobisher raised a paw and whined but Gloria didn't seem to notice. "I don't suppose you've heard from Charlie have you? I'm quite worried about him. You know the police have been to the studios, don't you. They asked us all lots of questions but of course, we couldn't really help. The whole thing is a mystery isn't it?"

"It is, Gloria and we're worried too. We'll talk later, okay?" said Dempsey, edging away with Harry.

"See you," waved Harry.

It was apparent this lady knew how to talk and she still wasn't quite ready to let them go.

"Are you American, Christopher?"

It had obviously only just registered with her. Dempsey had the studio keys in his hand now.

"I'm afraid so," he told her, bowing his head with gallant shame.

They were back out in the hall, moving towards the door at the end that bore a 'Studio 2' plate along with an empty plastic covered name plate beneath it.

"Charlie never mentioned you were American. You'd have thought he would have. It'll be quite glamorous having an American here," she gushed.

Frobisher was doing a little doggie dance now.

Dempsey was struggling frantically to find the right key that fit the lock.

"Oh, Christopher is anything but glamorous," said Makepeace, "but he does try, bless him."

"In you go, sweetheart." He ushered her through the door. "Nice to meet you, Gloria."

They could see through the window at the rear of the studio that the removals van had already backed up outside and the men were busy adjusting the strapping on the crate holding the life-scale model of the heavily pregnant Odette as they prepared to attach it to the hoist.

"We ain't gonna have no problems getting' that one to spill the 411 on our boy Charlie," said Dempsey, drawing open the double back doors after taking off the heavy padlock.

"Mmm. Think I might have a wander whilst you're sorting this lot out; see who else is about."

"Thanks! You wouldn't be playin' the pregnant lady card here by any chance would ya?"

"Certainly not," she objected to the suggestion, "it's called leg work. Oh and by the way, Mr Montgomery…"

"By the way, what, Mrs Montgomery?" he played along.

"Interesting accent."


	6. Neighbours

**This chapter is for AuntSal who is is laid up with a gammy knee at the moment and has to sit around all day watching D&M dvds and reading endless fanfic...my heart bleeds for you D! **

**I'm posting this (short) chapter earlier than planned because she kept 'going on' at me ;-)**

Chapter 6

The steps were steep and Makepeace took her time climbing them.

She could imagine that in Winter, this dark stairwell would be dank and dismal – right now it was just arenose and dismal as moats of dust played in the patches of sunlight that filtered down from the landing window.

She was aware of odd and unfamiliar smells in the air, most probably the by-products of the numerous materials the artists were using. Paints; Linseed oil, a raw, metallic tang that clawed unpleasantly at the back of her throat and dyes perhaps, she could detect the sort of scent that was present in tie-dyed Indian cotton clothing. And plaster – that above all else.

She reached the top of the stairs slightly out of breath and feeling perspiration break out over her body.

This damned bump was so hot!

"Can I help you?"

Harry looked across the square of landing where the stairs turned one step higher up.

A young woman, her light brown hair tied with thin black ribbons and piled messily on top of her head was watching her ascent. She wore a short, bright blue dress and leggings, cinched in at the waist with an elaborate black leather belt and gladiator sandals.

"I'm Odette Montgomery," said Harry, a little breathlessly. "My husband, Christopher's taken on the unit downstairs."

"Oh yeah, course. I forgot that was today. You alright then?"

She eyed the bump critically, as though not quite sure what to make of it.

"I'm better at going down than I am at coming up at the moment."

"Yeah, I can imagine."

Harry saw that like her, she found pregnant women something of a foreign entity.

"Would I be right in thinking you're Jenna? Jewellery? First floor?"

She had silver bangles up both arms which were laced together with more black ribbons and silver leaves. The theme was continued with the jewellery at her neck and large matching silver leaves dangled from her ears.

"Right. Jenna Farmer. You're a friend of Charlie's aren't you? Have you heard anything yet?"

"Nothing I'm afraid. Christopher's spoken to his father… you know he's a government minister? Well, he's apparently pulling a few strings to get him to the top of the missing persons list."

"Sounds about right. Had the fuzz swarming all over last week. They were more interested in the drugs though than actually finding Charlie."

They had found a small stash of marijuana , just a bit more than you might expect for personal use along with enough coke for a few lines. They were currently looking into tracing his dealer in case Charlie had decided to go over his head and had taken to dealing himself, leaving the dealer with an axe to grind.

"So what's your theory then?" asked Makepeace. "Do you think it's drugs related?"

"Me?" She sounded surprised. "No idea but whatever it is it'll be some trouble of his own making. Lives life in the fast lane does our Charlie, doesn't he?"

"What you might call a Jack the Lad, yes," she agreed, using the real Odette's phrase. "We knew he was making pots of cash but we were lead to believe he's selling a lot of his work lately."

"He is! Always has a carrier doing a pick-up."

"Did you ever see any of the addresses the consignments were going to?"

Harry knew when the police had asked the same question of her she had denied seeing anything but she may have remembered something since or was just one of those people who was loathe to help the police out for whatever reason.

"Why would I be interested in who his clients are? It isn't like we're in competition or anything. The police asked the same thing, like we should all have been keeping tabs on him."

Harry's back was aching from standing for so long but she knew Jenna wasn't going to ask her into her studio at this late stage. She stretched and put her hand beneath the bump to try to ease the weight.

Jenna regarded the action with a mixture of fearfulness and distaste in her eyes.

"D'you want a glass of water or something?"

Like drinking water would make any difference, thought Harry and then chastised herself for her ungratefulness. Although she knew she would have been a little more gracious under the same circumstances, she doubted she would have actually felt any differently before this weekend. Maybe her eyes had been opened.

"No, I'm fine thanks," she smiled. "Anyway, I'll leave you to get on, I just wanted to let you know that we're here in case you heard the banging around and wondered what on earth was happening down there."

Jenna appeared relieved. "Oh, okay. It was nice to meet you." She took a step back. "I'll see you soon then."

It was interesting, thought Harry, how some people asked questions about the pregnancy and some didn't. Jenna hadn't even asked when the baby was due which given her size was practically obligatory. The idea of a living creature being inside of another scared some people; the massive expansion of the body, the perceived deformity. Harry could understand that perfectly but could see it from another angle too. It still scared her but in an awe-inspiring sort of way.

"Is anyone around upstairs?" she asked as Jenna turned to go back into her studio. "I may as well go up and say hello now I've come this far."

"Don't worry, I'm coming down," called a deep male voice from somewhere above.

"Paul," Jenna informed her. "He's alright." As though she was passing her over into the care of this unseen individual.

The studio door closed on its swinger arm just as Paul rounded the bend in the staircase.

He stopped dead when he saw Makepeace.

"Funny, thought I recognised the voice but obviously I never linked it with you."

Despite the heat, Makepeace felt herself blanche.

He came down the last few steps to her, staring at the bump.

"Well, I'm ninety-nine percent certain that's got nothing to do with me." He laughed a little shakily.

She couldn't speak.

Paul eyed her with contempt. "Well, well, well. So you're Odette Montgomery. No wonder you didn't hang around."

With a mounting horror, she realised that her cover was about to be blown, and in spectacularly embarrassing fashion.


	7. For One Night Only

**Just love how you've been analysing this story. Angie86 and MyrtleLGroggins were spot on about Paul. Yes abeed, The Dude! -) SlyQuinn PM'd me and guessed even further down the line because she knows EVERYTHING!**

Chapter 7

She couldn't speak.

Paul eyed her with contempt. "Well, well, well. So you're Odette Montgomery. No wonder you didn't hang around."

Dempsey chose that very moment to appear, skipping nimbly up the stairs below.

"Here you are!" he grinned. "Winning friends and influencing people, honey?"

"She certainly is."

Paul strode across the landing, past Harry to shake Dempsey's hand. "Paul Masters. I'm in Studio Six at the top there."

"Christopher Montgomery. And you've already met my wife."

Masters looked to Harry with a tight smile. "Yes, I have."

Then he turned back to Dempsey. "It was me who phoned you last week about Charlie. I hadn't picked up on the fact that you're an American though."

"My telephone voice," Dempsey laughed, trying even harder with the Bostonian accent. "We've all got one, haven't we?"

"Oh yes, we all have a different persona we like to present to the rest of the world," he agreed, encompassing Makepeace in his reply. And then, cheerfully he asked, "You know we've all been interviewed by the police? They were round here last week, treading plaster dust all over the place in their size nines."

"It's good that something's being done though," Harry spoke at last. "He's been missing for quite a while now. Can't imagine what's happened to him."

"Who knows with our Charlie, aye? Could be leading a double life somewhere for all we know." He laughed, catching Harry's eye and she looked away, nervously.

"Is that a serious suggestion?" asked Dempsey.

Masters gave a very expansive shrug of his shoulders. "Why not? You probably know him better than I do; some of the stuff he gets up to… let's just say, his life is never boring."

There had been several incidents of unsavoury behaviour brought to light so far during the investigations including an arrest for possession five years ago along with one for the assault of a police officer outside a nightclub. Also, it was clear he had a penchant for the roulette table, loaning money off friends and at one point almost a year ago, his father had stepped in to pay off a debt of nearly three thousand pounds.

Despite these failings, Charlie, it seemed, was a popular character, the typical lovable rogue. If he had enemies, they had only been made whilst under the influence of a recreational substance, not through any lucid bloody-mindedness on his part.

"The police seemed to think it's drug related," prompted Dempsey.

"I don't know, I really don't. It's possible I suppose and I know he can be stupid sometimes but…"

"Makes you kind of wonder though. He never mentioned anything to us about new buyers, nothing about commission pieces or repeat business. When he told us business was booming I asked but he just said he had a few new contacts." This was what Montgomery himself had told them.

"Tell me about it!" said Masters, indignantly. "The police seemed to think I should know every bloody detail! Asking me stuff about where he gets his materials from for God's sake! His studio's awash with rubbish – paperwork…invoices…let _them_ wade through it."

"His studio's next to mine, right?" Dempsey asked, looking back towards the stairs. "Maybe they think because he's ground floor everyone should be able to give them that kind of info, you know, everyone has to use the front door so everyone is going to come into contact with delivery guys, sales people, other visitors."

"It's quiet here," said Masters, "we really don't get that many visitors and we've given the police a list of everyone who visits the studios so it's down to them now to sort it out; I don't see what else we can do."

"I'm sure he'll turn up," Makepeace said rigidly. "The proverbial bad penny."

Master's eyes lingered on her for a moment before he said, "Look, if you need any help with the moving in, let me know. I'm sure Billy'll be down later as well to say hello and then you've just got Gloria to meet."

"Gloria with the dish mop dog? We've met her already. Nice lady," Dempsey told him.

As Masters retreated back up to his studio, Dempsey and Harry took the stairs down to Studio Two where the removal men had just finished bringing in the last of the packing crates.

"Thanks fellas."

Dempsey tipped them and they left.

"Remind me I need to claim that back on my expenses," he mumbled before facing Harry and asking, "So, you wanna start tellin' me what the story is with you and Paul Masters?"

He was surprised to see her flush slightly.

"C'mmon," he pursued. "I gotta know what's goin' on here. It's obvious you know the guy. How comes he didn't say nothin'?"

"It's rather awkward…" she began, deliberating over her next words.

"You're Odette Montgomery… no wonder you didn't hang around?" he repeated the words he had heard as he had come up the stairs. "What the hell was that s'pposed to mean? And I could of cut the air with a house brick!" He frowned. "What gives, Harry?"

"I met him a few months ago at a party."

She left it there, knowing he would need more but it gave her extra time to choose how to explain herself.

"This is an investigation, sweetheart," he told her stonily. "You need to tell me what's goin' on. Why is the guy happy to believe that you're Odette Montgomery if you already met someplace else already?"

"Because, Dempsey," she hissed, frustrated and embarrassed by the situation and still trying to work out a way around giving him the complete picture, "…because he thinks you're my husband, he thinks he's covering for me."

But Dempsey twigged instantly. A small smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. " _'You didn't hang around'_? You been makin' whoopie, Makepeace? A little hit and run action?" The cultured, Bostonian accent returned. "Frankly, Harriet, I'm shocked."

"I'm so glad you find it amusing. The question is, what do I do?"

Dempsey began ripping parcel tape from the carton nearest to him.

"Well, you made your bed, looks like you're gonna have to lie in it for a while."

Not finding what he was looking for, he moved on to the next box.

"Fine," she answered coolly.

It went against the grain to let Masters believe she was an unfaithful wife but really there wasn't any other option unless she wanted to risk letting him in on their real identity.

She watched him open up a third box and heard a murmured acknowledgment of his find.

"What are you doing?" she asked, seeing him take up a large canister of what appeared to be water with a trigger spray attached to it.

"I gotta hose ya down, Babe."

"You've got to what?" Makepeace asked worriedly.

He went to the back of the studio where the removal men had crowbarred open the packing crate holding Montgomery's sculpture and proceeded to remove the oilcloth tarpaulin from the work-in-progress. The life-sized model of the heavily pregnant Odette was revealed to them.

"How 'bout that, ha?" Dempsey whistled under his breath.

Makepeace stared, struck dumb.

Although clearly unfinished, (lacking in the refined smoothness of a finished work) the life-like detail was something to behold.

"Don't know if it's turnin' me on or turnin' me off…"

Dempsey's eyes absorbed every sumptuous curve and hollow,

"Not sure it's supposed to do either actually," said Makepeace after a few moments.

They both spent a minute in silent contemplation.

"Why d'you bail on him?" Dempsey asked suddenly and she answered peevishly, "Is that really any of your business?"

Slowly, Dempsey moved up close to the sculpture, the spray bottle raised.

"I know you don't sleep around."

'Pssst'… as he squirted a mist of water over the clay.

"An' I know you don't do one night stands."

'Pssst'

Makepeace watched.

'Pssst' He glanced across but she continued to stare at the statue.

"Instructions from Montgomery. The man said we gotta keep the clay damp at all costs."

He continued to spray a fine mist upon the clay, bending to keep an even distance as he worked his way down the body.

Harry looked on, agonized and humiliated and with a dozen more strange emotions clawing at her as she stared at the sculpture of Odette who was now to become Harry.

"You're right. It ain't my business… but just so long as we're quoting the same scripture here," he told her casually.

She nodded. "It was just something that happened. Once. Months ago. So now he obviously thinks I lied about who I am…"

Harry bit her lip. "There wasn't much exchange of personal information," she added, not looking his way as she spoke.

This wasn't something she'd imagined ever having to admit to, particularly to Dempsey. She hadn't even told Angela.

"I need a cast iron guarantee that this isn't gonna come back and bite you – or me, in the ass at some point," he said with a sudden flare of anger which took her by surprise. It had surprised Dempsey too. He hadn't expected that sharp stab of jealousy that seemed to come from nowhere.

"It won't be a problem," she told him curtly. "It'll reinforce our cover in his mind if anything. It's almost a double bluff."

"Sure," he growled as he moved around the other side of the sculpture.

Why would she do that? Makepeace was better than that. Jeez, he didn't even wanna know!

'Pssst'… He sprayed too close to the face and the concentrated blast gathered into rivulets that ran down the clay face. Dempsey cursed aloud and with what Harry perceived as a peculiar tenderness, he passed his hand lightly along the jawline to wipe the excess away.

He stood back, surveying his progress and then suddenly he thrust the spray gun at Makepeace.

"Here. You finish it. I need coffee."

She was left holding the cannister as he went off in search of the kettle the Montgomerys had packed for their new premises.

At that moment, Makepeace felt unaccountably miserable.

* * *

The fisherman's cottage overlooked the grey pebbled beach from its position nestled against the low cliffside. A two up two down residence, it had seen better days and its partial modernization in the 1960's did it no favours. The linoleum on the kitchen floor, the formica worktops and blue painted walls only served to cheapen the interior and the bathroom suite installed in one of the upstairs rooms was now dingy and discoloured. However, the beamed ceilings and stone walls ensured the cottage retained at least some of its character and the open fireplaces in the living area and the bedroom were both charming and practical. The furniture was shabby and the carpets threadbare in places but the place was habitable and its location perfect for those intent on 'getting away from it all'.

Outside, seagulls wheeled overhead and their cries were piercing on the still, warm air. The clear blue of the sky was reflected on the surface of the usually steel grey sea, giving it the solid and simplistic appearance of a child's poster paint picture.

Dark outcroppings of rock featured prominently here, meandering up the beach like random giant footprints. Every surface and every hidden crevice was obscured by the shiny shells of muscles clinging steadfast and impenetrable and the shallow rockpools teemed with life.

The body lay at the shoreline where the smooth grey pebbles shelved down at the water's edge.


	8. Photographic Evidence

**Thanks for all the reviews you've given me so far for this story. You've got no idea (unless you're a writer on here yourself) how much it spurs me on to keep writing. I've got two chapters in hand because of your feedback :-)**

**Fleura45 - You need to get writing a new D&M story - you're too good at them not to! Same applies to Haveunotthought, Duann & xLaramiex too ;-)**

Chapter 8

"We need to get access to Sach's studio," said Dempsey, "need to take a look around."

They were sitting at a workbench drinking coffee, Dempsey on a high draughtman's stool, Makepeace on an old paint-spattered plastic stacking chair.

"Nothing to stop us coming back tonight when the Montgomerys are here," she pointed out.

"What and hang around here all day doin' arts an' crafts like it's kindergarten?"

"You could go and schmooze Gloria, dazzle her with your _glamour_," she said drily.

"Okay, no problem and you can go schmooze Masters," he made a gesture with his hand, "…again!"

Makepeace cringed inwardly. "Funny."

"Hey, I'm serious. You know the guy…" he looked down on her from his elevated position, "you have _knowledge _of him."

He grinned at her. "That's one hell of a door opener, Makepeace."

Harry brought her coffee cup to her lips with both hands and sipped slowly – it was a tool she subconsciously employed during moments of discomfiture.

"I'll have to bow to your far greater experience," she murmured captiously.

That she regretted the one night stand was gloriously obvious to Dempsey. And why that should please him quite as much as it did, he wasn't sure.

"Play it cool," he advised. "What's the worst that could happen – he tells your husband?

"Thanks for the advice," she said sarcastically.

Dempsey grinned. "No problem."

He took a slug of coffee and smacked his lips. "So. Where'd you meet?"

Makepeace threw him one of her _you've got to be kidding _looks.

"It's a case. It's relevant," he then said seriously.

He was right, damn him. Harry collected her thoughts calmly.

"Flicker… it's a bar in Soho. It was a private party and I was there with a friend of mine who'd got an invitation through some P.R work she'd done for the gallery that was hosting the party."

"Gallery?"

"Yes, gallery."

"What gallery?"

"Errm…" she tried to think. "I don't know, I can't remember the name of it. Anyway, he was there, that's how we met," she added sullenly.

"Okay, and who did you tell him you were exactly?"

She tried to cross her legs – force of habit, but the bump got in the way. "He knew me as Harriet and I knew him as Paul."

"And when he asked what you did for a living?"

She didn't need the third degree, not off him.

"I'm not a bloody suspect, Dempsey! This isn't an interrogation."

Sitting forward on his stool, he let his hands fall loosely between his knees.

"'kay," he said quietly, "you know the drill, just give it to me straight up."

She felt caught.

"I told him I was a civil servant. I find that being economical with the truth is easier sometimes, don't you?" she asked tightly. But without waiting for an answer, she carried on. "We talked about art; wine, Brighton, road signs and Rasputin," and not pausing for breath, "and please don't ask me why it's those things in particular I remember. I'd had rather a lot to drink but they've just stuck in my mind for whatever reason." Makepeace kept her eyes levelled on the heating pipes fixed along the far wall. "We went to his place, _not _mine. We had sex and I draw the line at the detail I'm afraid. I left very early in the morning and didn't say goodbye." Harry looked at him defiantly. "Anything else you feel might be pertinent to the case?"

"How long ago we talkin'?"

"The beginning of May."

Dempsey did a quick calculation in his head. "Great! The guy's gonna put two and two together and come up with five months. You would have been five months pregnant when he dabbled in your fine art, Makepeace! How're you gonna explain that one away?"

"I don't know, do I. If he asks I'll just have to say I didn't start showing until very late on."

"You're tellin' me!"

Makepeace was indignant. "It isn't unheard of for women to go to full term without even realising they're pregnant!"

"Yeah, sure, if they're blimps at the conception!" Dempsey cried. "You ain't no King Kong, lady. I notice these things."

Harry sat back, puffing her fringe out of her eyes. "So what's the alternative – we let him in on what's really going on?"

"Your call, Babe but just 'cause you did the bad thing with the guy ya know, don't mean he's kosher."

"I do realise that," she clipped. "I'm just going to have to brazen it out."

Dempsey grinned. "Least you know he ain't gonna be hittin' on you again, hah?"

He hadn't asked why.

Harry massaged her right shoulder where the wide vest strap was biting down, making it ache.

He hadn't asked why she'd slept with Paul Masters and it was like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Heaving herself to her feet, she ignored his last comment.

"We can at least find out who's got the studio keys, save us having to pick the lock. I'm sure Gloria will know."

Dempsey was in agreement. "Okay, so we unpack this stuff and then go for a mosey around."

"Fine," said Harry, brightly, glad that Paul Masters was no longer the focus of attention.

* * *

An hour later, Dempsey was pulling half a dozen large black portfolio cases from out of a packing crate. He unzipped one of them, finding a stack of pencil sketches. They were all rough drawings of Odette, standing naked, leaning slightly forward against a wall with her face turned to the side. Each drawing was from a slightly different perspective, each clearly capturing the way her flesh reacted to the hard, impervious material, the way her breasts flattened and her thighs stretched. Dempsey impressed himself sometimes – he _got_ it.

After leafing through another couple of the portfolios, he returned to the crate and found four red plastic record card boxes stacked in two lots of two at the bottom. They all contained photographs, he discovered; nude shots of Odette in various poses.

He sat down on the plastic stacking chair, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, a smile on his face as he turned the photos this way and that.

After a minute or two, Makepeace looked across from her unpacking of sculpting tools.

"What have you got there?" she asked suspiciously.

Dempsey chuckled. "Just acquainting myself with the real you."

She walked across to look over his shoulder.

"Not terribly 'current', are they?" she asked with indifference as she eyed Odette's pre-pregnant, sylph-like figure.

"I dig retro."

He flicked through the last few in his hand. "Got a body just beggin' to be moulded."

Harry was sifting idly through another box-full, appraising Odette's body with a woman's eyes. "She has got a beautiful figure," she commented.

Dempsey took up a third box and Harry frowned. "Are you planning on going through the whole lot, Dempsey?"

"Hey, it's deskwork."

"Well, I'm not sure it's ethical deskwork."

"What can I say, I'm morally corrupt."

His expression altered then to one of surprise. "And what do we have here?"

Harry glanced down. "What have you found?"

"Now she's somethin' else!" Dempsey grinned.

Leaning forward, she plucked the photograph from his hand, revealing another one from the same series beneath which he lifted up to scrutinize.

"Lips made for kissin'," he crowed.

"Which ones?" choked Harry.

Dempsey gave a dark and dirty laugh. "Classical art it ain't."

"It's practically pornographic!"

"Yeah," he smiled fondly.

The woman in the photograph was quite stunning; perfect unblemished alabaster skin, a waterfall of auburn, pre-Raphaelite hair and vivid blue eyes that stared boldly into the camera lens. Although she was reclining on the same white block as Odette was in some of the photographs, these images were a far cry from such tasteful poses. The red-haired beauty clearly wasn't aiming for 'tasteful' when she divided her impossibly long legs.

Harry continued to stare fixedly at the photo she held.

"She doin' somethin' for you there, Makepeace?" Dempsey enquired lasciviously.

"I think I know her."

"You know her?" he exclaimed. "Boy, am I gonna have some sweet dreams tonight!"

Harry shook her head with annoyance. "No, I don't mean I _know_ her exactly, I've seen her somewhere before."

"Where?"

"I have no idea."

"Well when you remember, maybe you could hook me up with her."

"Mmm, just your type, isn't she," Makepeace said slowly, still trying to recall where she had seen her before, "leggy, flame-haired and breathing."

Dempsey turned around to her in his chair and to Harry's surprise, drew an arm about her hips as he nestled his cheek against the bump.

"Now you take no notice little fella. Mommy's just kiddin' around. Me and your Mommy love each other very, very much," he lifted his face to a startled Harry, "ain't that right, Mommy?"

"Oh, stop being so ridiculous!" she blustered, pulling away angrily.

"Hey, lighten up, Babe. I'm only messin' with ya."

"Well please don't."

She felt herself colour. He'd overstepped the mark. They were supposed to be working and that sort of play-acting was completely unnecessary without an audience. Why did he always have to take it too far?

Dempsey was stuffing the photographs back into the record card box, his neutral expression denoting his frustrated annoyance. What the hell was up with her anyhow? He'd been joking around, making light of the situation. He could appreciate the fat suit was making her tetchy but he hadn't expected it to squash her sense of humour quite so flat.

"If this is becoming something you can't handle, Makepeace, just say the word, okay? You can walk away any time you like, you got a get out of jail free card right there," he said, pointing a finger directly at her middle.

She wanted to shout, scream, beat her fists on him, run away, throw up, bury her head in the sand and sob her heart out… and the most painful thing was, she couldn't explain why. Everything just felt so mixed up.

"So because you insist on behaving like a moron, that means _I_ can't handle the case, is that what you're saying?"

She was trying to sound calm but all she could hear was ice and steel.

"What I'm saying," he ground, "is that you've slept with some guy involved in this thing…" his voice went up an octave, "_and_ you've got a connection with the Montgomerys because of whoever this chick is." His hand swept towards the box of photos. You wanna bow out, you got good reason."

"Ah," she nodded her understanding. "You think I shouldn't be on the case. I'm right, aren't I? You're classing Paul Masters as personal involvement."

"Can't get much more personal, Princess," he threw back.

He hadn't said she shouldn't be working the case; he'd offered her a get-out because he could see the pressure she was putting herself under but she'd just twisted his words.

Still, if the cap fit.

Harry felt like she was about to explode and what made it a hundred times worse was the fact that he might just be right. Maybe this whole thing was too much for her to deal with rationally.

"I'm going for a walk, Dempsey, before I say something I may regret."

She dragged her handbag off the workbench and made for the still open back doors.

"Yeah, you do that," he called after her. "And keep your nose to the ground, you may find that sense of humour you lost."

He didn't know whether she had heard that or not and he didn't really care.

He angrily flipped open the lid of the box of photos again, taking out the ones of the uninhibited red-head. He was pretty sure he'd never met her – he would definitely have remembered. Boy, she was…

"Shit!" he cursed softly, suddenly cramming them back into the box.

Who was he kidding – of course he cared.


	9. Pass The Sherry

**Chapter 9**

At 12:30pm there came a gentle tap on the door.

Dempsey was finishing off the unpacking and Makepeace was still on her 'time out'.

"It's open," he yelled.

The door opened a crack and Gloria Freeman-Kelty poked her head in. "Woo-hoo!" She quickly scanned the room, seeking him out and then spotting him, she beamed. "Only us."

She bustled into the studio followed by Jenna, a kid he recognised from one of the investigation photos as Billy Higgins and an unsmiling Paul Masters.

"Hello," he replied, surprised by the en masse visit.

"We thought we'd give you a bit of time to settle in before we descended but," she held up a big patchwork shopping bag she was carrying, "we thought it might be nice to welcome you into the fold properly and I always say there's nothing like food and drink for bringing people together."

"Wow, well what have you got there, Gloria?" he asked with exaggerated delight.

"Oh, you know, just some nice little munchies for yours and Odette's lunch and a lovely big tin of biscuits. We're complete biscuit fiends around here, aren't we Billy?"

She looked to the gangly youth with a fond smile. "This one can't go a day without a choccie bickie, he's addicted, bless him."

Billy regarded her sheepishly and then remembering his manners, took his hands out of his pockets.

"I'm Billy Higgins," he said and stepped forward to shake Dempsey by the hand.

"It's good to meet you, Billy." And addressing them all, explained, "Odette went for a walk a little while ago. She needed a break and some fresh air – wanted to clear her head."

"Goodness me," said Gloria. "Is she alright? She won't have got herself lost will she, not knowing the area I mean? It's just that I'd hate to think of her wandering around in this heat and not being able to find her way back…and in her condition." Gloria was taking various items out of her shopping bag and placing them on the work bench. "Not that I'm suggesting she isn't perfectly capable but I'm sure you must worry about her all the time lately, Christopher."

"I do worry," Dempsey agreed, "but she's a big girl…no pun intended." There were polite smiles and Gloria tittered.

Holding up a bottle she had just taken from the bag, Gloria sang, "We have sher-rrrry!"

Dempsey put his hand up to decline.

Sherry? Sherry! What the hell was wrong with a bottle of Scotch?

"Nonsense. Nothing wrong with a little lunchtime snifter. It sets you up for the afternoon ahead – my creative tonic."

"She's right actually," said Jenna as she took one of the clear plastic cups Gloria was offering around. "I'm Jenna Farmer by the way. I met your wife earlier."

"Hello Jenna."

_Great legs!_ he tried not to notice – he needed to remember he was a married man.

Gloria had sidled over to the oil-cloth enrobed sculpture.

"May I take a peek?" she asked, reaching out for a corner.

"Ah, no." Dempsey raised a hand in objection. "No. I'd prefer it if you didn't."

He was beside her now. "It's just a thing with me. I don't like for people to see what I do until I reach a certain point. I need it to be unmistakeably Odette before I show it."

And right now, those features were definitely more Odette than Harry.

Gloria quickly let the oil-cloth go again.

"Oh, I see. Say no more. It's just me being horribly nosey as usual."

"No problem," he smiled. "It's almost there. Anyway, the sight of all this food has made me realise how hungry I am. What say we make a start on these cookies?"

Dempsey opened the tin of biscuits and shared them around as they made small-talk. The Sherry was disgustingly sweet he decided. He really couldn't fathom how come it was so popular with the Brits.

"The prodigal wife has returned!" said Paul Masters in a loud and jovial voice as Harry plodded through the back doors.

"We were a bit worried about you, dear," piped Gloria.

Harry did a double take, surprised by the unexpected gathering of people.

"Hello."

"Our colleagues brought us lunch, Odette," Dempsey told her.

"Gosh, how lovely!"

She accidently caught Paul's eye and quickly looked away.

Billy, hands in pockets again, nodded towards the little spread of food. "Just a few sarnies and some crisps and stuff. Gloria thought you probably wouldn't have had chance to get anything."

"A veritable feast!" Dempsey enthused. "Look at this!" He indicated the small tubs of olives, coleslaw and cous-cous salad. "They're spoiling us, honey."

"It all looks wonderful," Makepeace agreed, moving into his arms to be embraced.

"You manage to clear your head?" he asked solicitously, just loud enough for their audience to appreciate.

Makepeace pushed up against him affectionately. "I did thank you, darling. There's a lovely little park up the road. I sat on a bench and watched the world go by for a while."

The Sherry bottle was being passed around again for top-ups.

"I go there sometimes," Jenna said, pouring another half a cup out and handing it to Billy.

"Think I'll pass," he mumbled. "No offense but I could do with getting back upstairs."

Gloria, Paul and Jenna laughed.

"You can't keep our Billy away from his studio for long," Paul explained. "I guarantee you've never met anyone more dedicated to his work."

"Completely passionate and totally absorbed, aren't you, dear?" smiled Gloria with a squeeze of his arm.

Jenna rolled her eyes. "Obsessed, more like." But she gave Billy a lop-sided grin all the same.

He didn't seem to know what to do with his half-finished Sherry and the bottle he had acquired until Harry stepped forward and relieved him of them.

"I think it's fantastic you've obviously got such a vocation, Billy."

"Thanks," he acknowledged, flushing.

He was clearly quite awkward around people and Makepeace found his gaucheness refreshingly endearing.

"Go on then," she encouraged, "masterpiece in the making up there."

"Yeah, okay. Thanks. Bye."

He half turned to go but then, as though daring himself and looking at her from under his eyelashes said, "I really like your name by the way."

"Absolutely smashing young man," Gloria informed Dempsey and Harry after he had gone, "but all work and no play…" she left the sentence unfinished. "It's a pity he can't find himself a nice girl to distract him just a little bit."

"Seems like a great kid," Dempsey agreed, putting his arms around Harry again as she returned from depositing the Sherry on the bench. "And I really admire that level of dedication in someone so young."

They chatted for a while longer and when, with a little direction, the subject of Charlie's disappearance cropped up, Harry dangled the gambling issue out for discussion.

"I'm just worried he's got himself up to his neck again," she sighed. "I used to think it was a phase but then when last year he…" Harry stopped, feigning discomfort. "He probably wouldn't thank me for airing his dirty linen."

Paul Masters shook his head. "Open secret. He's tapped us all up for a loan at one time or another. I don't think he's back to that particular vice though. I remember he used to run on adrenaline half the time back then. Some mornings he'd come into the studios straight from the casino!"

"We've all been there," Dempsey grimaced.

"Mmm," Makepeace confirmed with wifely displeasure.

"Gambling partners for a time," Dempsey said and glanced down at her, "until I realised some things are more important."

Harry had to admit she was impressed. In one sentence, Dempsey had given Masters a reason for her own wayward behaviour; a wife neglected, a wife passed over in favour of a nasty habit, a wife feeling unloved."

She smiled weakly. God, if only Dempsey knew.

"But," Dempsey sighed, "I'd like to think that whatever the problem, Charlie would be able to confide in me. That's what I just don't get, why he'd disappear without a word to anyone. Someone's got to know something."

There were murmurs of agreement.

"Did any of you guys check through his stuff? I mean, I know the police went through everything but I don't suppose they'd pick up on anything out of the ordinary. They were only looking for the obvious I'd have thought."

Gloria nodded sagely. "I wouldn't underestimate our police force. I think they're quite switched on with this sort of thing."

She reached out her hand to Dempsey. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded, Christopher… I'm including you of course when I say _our_ police force. Please don't take offense."

Dempsey smiled. If only she knew.

He smiled warmly. "I'm sure I could never take offense at anything you say, Gloria."

"I speak before I think a lot of the time," Gloria simpered, lapping up his flattery.

"All adds to the charm. You clearly say what you feel and I like that in a person."

Dempsey was pushing all the right buttons.

"Maybe you should have a little look around his studio. I'm sure being a friend you'd be more able than anyone to pick up on any clues."

Bingo!

"You know, unless anyone has any objections, I think I might just do that."

"I'll fetch you the keys," Paul told him. "I should be making a move anyway."

"Thanks. I appreciate that."

"You going to play detective then, Christopher?" asked Jenna.

"Worth a shot."

Jenna smirked. "I shouldn't waste too much time; he's probably holed up with some girl he met in a night club," she said scornfully.

"For ten days, Jenna? I think you might be overestimating our Charlie," laughed Masters. "There's only so much love a man can give."

Jenna scowled, looking furious but she said no more.

Paul chuckled as he made for the door. "I'm off back upstairs. I'll bring you those keys down in a bit," he said, looking towards Dempsey.

But Dempsey wanted them sooner rather than later.

"I'll come with you and you can show me some of your work if that's okay."

Masters eyes were drawn to Harry's, seeking out her reaction to her husband's request. Makepeace forced a pleasant smile, feeling so very awkward although not for the reasons he would assume.

"No problem. Why don't you come too, Odette… if you're feeling up to it."

Harry looked up from her plastic stacking chair. His eyes were laughing at her, enjoying her discomfort and she couldn't exactly blame him.

"Maybe tomorrow, but thank you anyway."

"You're dead on your feet, aren't you dear?" sympathised Gloria.

"It's been a long morning," she agreed.

"Darling?"

Makepeace turned to find Dempsey standing behind her offering a white paper bag.

"You stay here and eat." He smiled broadly and Makepeace almost believed it. "You and junior need to keep your strength up."

He leant forward and kissed her on the forehead. "Okay, honey?"

Dempsey was laying it on thick, playing his role to the hilt although he wasn't sure this was the way Montgomery himself would be doing it. But then, Dempsey admitted, Montgomery would have no reason to be interested in the reaction it did or didn't receive from Paul Masters.

A quarter of an hour later though, Dempsey's interest was definitely roused by an unexpected discovery he made in Studio Six.


	10. A Piece Of Masters

**Thanks for all the reviews you lot. Each and every one makes my day :-) If you're still enjoying the story, don't forget to 'follow' or 'favorite'.**

**Introduction of a new character in this chapter... guess who? ;-)**

Chapter 10

"Not sure how I finished up being the keeper of the keys but there you are," said Masters as he rummaged through the second drawer down of a battered oak desk. "Maybe you should hang onto them seeing as you're next door. Easier if the police come back needing access.. ahhh!" He held up a set of two keys dangling from a black enamelled key fob.

"Okay, no problem," Dempsey agreed, catching them as Masters tossed them to him. "So, have you been renting this studio long?"

"A couple of years."

"The wife had it with you cluttering up the place too?" he fished with a grin.

"You could say that. She threw me out and the flat I've got now isn't really big enough to work from hence this place. It suits me down to the ground though, I prefer that sense of 'going to work'. I find I can paint with a clear head, I'm not distracted by the arrival of the post and chucking away last night's take-away cartons."

"I can understand that, keeping home and work separated seems like a great idea," he replied, remembering the pizza box he'd dumped on the coffee table last night and failed to throw down the garbage chute this morning.

"Doesn't suit everyone but I'd certainly recommend it."

Dempsey was casting an eye about the cluttered studio. Canvases filled most of the wall space and stood leaning upright three and four deep against each other. As seemed to be standard, a workbench ran along one side but this appeared to be a dumping ground for glass jars and tin cans containing a vast array of paint brushes along with various bottles, tubes and other art related materials.

Masters held his arm out. "Please…" he said, indicating that Dempsey should feel free to browse.

"Are you making it pay?"

He wasn't sure that was a suitable question to ask. Maybe artist etiquette didn't allow for such direct reference to money. The answer was probably seen as a reflection of their success of lack of.

Masters gave him a knowing look. "You know as well as I do that if you're not a name, it's a peaks and troughs game – unless you're prepared to sell your soul to the devil that is."

Was he supposed to understand what that meant? Rather than risk revealing this lack of knowledge, he hedged his bets with, "And have you ever been tempted?"

"What?" laughed Masters. "Tempted to have my deeply personal, painstakingly created work commercialised, sterilized and bastardized so that the likes of John Menzie and Athena can shrink it down to a birthday card for great aunt Ethel or blow it up and stick it in a plastic frame to hang on the kitchen wall? Effectively, to turn my work into so much toilet paper?"

Jeezas! Hadn't Harry warned him artists were temperamental?

"You bet I would!" Masters laughed. "In fact, they could print it on the toilet paper if it meant it would sell."

Dempsey laughed loudly. "Sounds like you'd be happy to throw your grandmother's soul in there too!"

"D'you want to make me an offer" Masters challenged. "I'm not precious about what I do; I paint pictures and I'll sell to whoever wants to buy."

"Well, the best of luck to you," Dempsey said, "although you're certainly not lacking in talent."

The majority of his work was of London street scenes incorporating portraiture; close-ups of people in conversation, window shopping, even somebody using a phone box and all set against the backdrop of London.

"All these stem from an interest in photography," Masters explained. "I realised that some of the photos would lend themselves to half decent oils."

Dempsey picked out a few of the paintings, asking questions about various aspects. He found himself genuinely interested in the subject matter, random Londoners going about their everyday life and it struck him as strangely amusing that he was able to identify many of the locations.

"Six years," Dempsey told him with confidence when asked how long he and Odette had been married.

They had acquired a basic background knowledge of the Montgomerys that would get them through standard chit-chat and anything beyond would be down to educated guesswork or imagination.

"And have you lived in the U.K long?"

Dangerous territory.

"Roughly eight. Just came over with the intention of stopping for a year but then I met Odette and well, here I still am."

"And just about to embark on fatherhood," Masters smiled.

Dempsey sensed what was coming.

"Yes, it's going to be a new experience that's for sure."

"How long 'til the big day?"

"A couple of weeks or so."

He watched Masters do the mental math – it didn't take above five seconds. It'd be funny if it wasn't so freakin' obscene! He thought he'd screwed a married woman when she was five months pregnant. He felt kind of sorry for the guy.

"That soon?" He sounded shocked, as well he might.

"You don't think she looks big enough to pop?"

He was going through a stack of canvases now that were leaning up against a wall.

"Well… yeah, I suppose she does. Do you like that one?" he wanted to know, seeing Dempsey lift out a portrait of a dark haired young woman gazing out of a window onto a shabby little side street.

"Yeah, I do. I really do. That look on her face… makes me want to reach in there and give her a hug. Who is she?"

"My brother's wife, on the first anniversary of his death."

"I'm sorry."

Masters passed it off. "It's fine. It was five years ago. A road accident."

Dempsey studied the picture a little closer.

"What you've done with the reflection on the glass is amazing, it's…" he brought it closer to his face, "…they're not her eyes!"

"Correct," Masters affirmed. "I'm impressed. Not many people notice that unless it's pointed out to them. I used Nicholas's eyes in the reflection."

"Wow," Dempsey said softly, "you're good."

Masters merely shrugged. "Some you win, some you lose. It's not a masterpiece but I like it."

"So why do you have it hidden away?" He had moved to the next group of paintings along as he spoke.

"Too personal to sell I suppose and too sad to have looking down on me all day."

"Okay, I can understand that I guess."

Dempsey stopped flicking through the canvases, his attention grabbed by the subject of one canvas in particular. He tried to decide how he should begin but Masters set the ball rolling himself.

"Beautiful, isn't she?"

"She's stunning."

Now there was a word Dempsey being Dempsey would never normally use but 'stunning' fit the bill in this instance. It was the same woman he had seen earlier in the risqué photographs.

Masters stuck his hands into his pockets, chuckling darkly as he looked on. "Her name is Inga. She modelled for me last Summer."

"Well, thanks to Inga, I'm sure it was a great Summer," Dempsey exclaimed, the accent slipping just a little bit.

"To be honest with you, she was a pain in the arse. Turned up when she felt like it, left when she pleased, completely uninhibited, manipulative, knew how to twist men around her little finger and yes," Masters continued, pre-empting Dempsey's next question, "she had me tied up in knots for a while."

"Must've been fun while it lasted though."

"Hey, I'm not denying it," he laughed, "but it was almost a relief when she moved on to her next victim."

Masters was looking through another lot of canvases. "There's another one somewhere… here, this one!"

He lifted out a large 3' x 2' painting, this one framed. In it, Inga knelt seductively upon an unmade bed, the sheet beneath her creased and a long length of diaphanous pale lilac material twisting up between her parted thighs to drape about her waist and fall across her right shoulder.

Dempsey struggled to keep in character. "Wow, she's hot… like, smokin' hot!"

Masters smiled at his reaction. "Many men have got themselves burnt, women too from what I gathered."

Dempsey's head swivelled, his fingers squooshing his lips together as he tried to stop his broad grin from spreading. "Okaaaaaaay," he said steadily.

"Although I don't think you've got any reason to be looking around," said Masters lightly. "Your wife's quite a stunner herself."

Dempsey shrugged his shoulders. "I think she's pretty fabulous," he said easily.

_If she really was my wife, you'd be on the deck right now, pal_

He looked back at the painting and was met by those piercing blue eyes. He realised there and then that he had a thing for piercing blue eyes and whilst that cascade of red hair was something to behold, he actually preferred blondes.

"I like to play with transparency and reflection," mused Masters. "With this one, my focus was on the fabric." He sketched out areas with his finger. "It's a challenge to reproduce the correct density and depth to allow the skin beneath to appear natural. And the sheen on the fabric is so difficult to maintain."

_His 'focus' in this painting was the god-damned fabric! Jeezas, no wonder all he'd got out of Makepeace was a one night stand. The freako had probably been more interested in the bedsheets than Makepeace's body!_

The thought made him smirk. Was that the reason she hadn't wanted to see him again – the guy was a lousy lover?

"Were you working in artificial light or natural daylight?" Dempsey asked whilst he tried to figure out how he could get more information on Inga. It was too big a coincidence that although Masters and Montgomery had never met, they had both used the same model.

"Always natural light. You must find the same to some extent."

_Whoa, whoa, whoa! He needed to steer the conversation well away from stuff he knew next to nothing about._

"That's true only the two fields are wide apart," he began. "I'm working with a three dimensional subject and recreating it in a three dimensional format. You on the other hand are translating into only two dimensions."

_Shut up Dempsey!_

"Light must be everything to you," he rambled, "when you have to build up depth, colour and texture on a two dimensional canvas. I have to take my hat off to you. It certainly isn't something I could do."

_He was just digging a deeper hole by spouting this shit._

"Two completely different concepts in recreating the physical world though," Masters started.

"You know," Dempsey cut in, "I would really love to use her as a model."

He gazed down at the painting that Masters was placing back with the others.

The painter looked surprised. "Really? I thought Charlie had told me you only ever use Odette."

He was right. That was what Spikings had told them at the briefing – Montgomery didn't use any model other than his wife! So did that mean that the nudie pics of Inga were just that - nudie pics?

"Odette's going to have her hands full once our son is born. No way will she be able to put in those hours at the studio anymore."

"Ah. Of course."

"If you have her number, I could give her a call maybe."

"I haven't I'm afraid, she moved a couple of months ago." Masters pulled a pained expression. "Look, I'm not being funny, Christopher but she's bad news, I could do without her back on the scene to be honest."

This Inga sounded like a real piece of work but he was sure Masters was lying about the number.

"A couple of months ago?" Dempsey questioned. "Has she been back in touch? Hoping to rekindle lost passions?" He grinned, letting him know he could see his predicament.

"Not me. I haven't seen hide nor hair of her. Apparently Charlie bumped into her though, some wine bar in Chelsea. Not that he actually said as much but I think she probably got her claws into him that night, if you know what I mean."

Dempsey was positive he hadn't seen the name 'Inga' on any of the paperwork relating to the case so it would have to be assumed there was no kind of relationship there. If Charlie Sachs had been dating this woman, they would know about it. Correction, they _should_ know about it.

"She sounds the adventurous type."

"She's that alright. Believe me, she isn't the sort of woman you want to be associating with if you're a married man."

"Thanks for the warning. Still, I'm going to need a model at some point. Is Inga with any agency? I think I need to at least start checking out a few portfolios."

Masters shook his head. "She isn't signed to anywhere, at least she wasn't when I knew her. Gets herself work by networking; social events, promo parties, that sort of thing."

He went to his desk and pulled a notepad towards him. "Look, I can give you the number of the place I've used in the past." He wrote the name down – Flaunt Models. He opened a desk drawer and sifted through the contents until he came up with a business card, grubby and dog-eared. "And here's the number."

He jotted this down on the notepad before tearing the sheet off and handing it over.

"Thanks," said Dempsey.

He found himself needing a reason to dislike the guy – a proper reason which didn't include the fact that he'd gotten into Makepeace's pants because that was most definitely not a proper reason. What his partner got up to on her own time was nothing to do with him.

He supposed Masters was what would be considered attractive to a woman. Dark, tousled hair, a slim but muscular physique, a deep, lilting voice.

He looked down at the hand bearing the lined sheet of paper. Long, slender fingers – fingers that had caressed every inch of her body, that knew the dewy flush of her skin, fingers that had been privy to every intimate detail of her both inside and out.

She'd known this man for what, possibly three hours before she slid between the sheets and let him do those things. She'd known Dempsey for three years and sometimes he thought he could see loathing in her eyes.

How was he getting it so wrong?

Dempsey caught himself glaring at Masters, felt his nostrils flaring and his lips draw into a tight line. And he realised that Masters was more than a little disconcerted. He was wondering if Montgomery suspected the thing with his wife.

Dempsey gave him a deliberately knowing smile.

Let the schmuck wonder.


	11. Who's Inga?

Chapter 11

"Inga," Makepeace repeated. "Inga who?"

"Couldn't get a second name. Your guy's a little bitter it seems."

Dempsey opened up the paper bag that was left on the bench and took a huge bite out of the chicken salad roll Gloria had brought.

Makepeace held her tongue, knowing he had said 'your guy' to draw a reaction. Instead, she raised a querulous eyebrow.

"They had a _thang_," he supplied, "and he made it crystal clear he don't want me gettin' in contact with her."

He took another bite, talking through the food. "Now I figure that's either 'cause he's a sensitive kinda guy or 'cause he's got somethin' to hide." He looked her dead in the eye. "What thinks you, Makepeace?"

Was he seriously asking her opinion or was he suggesting that she should be more aware of Masters' emotional status than he?

"I think we need to find this Inga person."

He grinned. "I was hopin' you was gonna say that."

* * *

Inga poured herself a glass of wine and took it over to the open window where she sat down and lit a cigarette.

Her nerves were on edge. Tired after her wasted trip, she knew she couldn't put the phone call off any longer.

The hit of nicotine and menthol cleared her head a little and she gazed at the thin, brown Moore cigarette in her fingers for a moment before taking another drag.

She could hear the clock on the mantelpiece ticking, reminding her that she was rapidly running out of time – something had to be done, she must set the wheels in motion.

It wasn't a good view; not any sort of view at all really, just a mirror of the tall white buildings that her own flat was part of. She would have liked a view of the park but she supposed she mustn't be greedy and if she played her cards right she would finish up with something a lot better than a tiny, one bedroom, third floor flat even if it was in Kensington.

She took a fortifying drink from her glass of Liebfraumilch before placing it on the window sill and picking up the phone. Inga crossed her long legs and tossed her curling auburn tresses back. She dialled, a little more confident now and clear on the angle she should go for.

"Peter, it's me. How are you?"

"Impatient. What's the hold up?"

"The little shit's disappeared," she answered, injecting a modicum of venom into her tone.

The silence that followed was as Inga had predicted and she waited it out calmly.

"You have got to be kidding me," he grated then. "What the hell do I pay you for?"

"I've been doing my job, Peter. Everything's been fine up until now. I couldn't predict something like this was going to happen."

Angrily, the man replied, "You're supposed to be in control here. You run him for me. You assured me you had him where you wanted him and now you're telling me he's disappeared off the radar? And since when? When did you last speak to him?"

"Three days ago," she lied smoothly. "He told me everything was ready and I had no reason to doubt him."

"So that's it then is it? One point three million gone. That's what you rang to tell me?"

She was looking forward to telling him the next part even less.

"Look Peter, the cops have been sniffing around – he's been reported as missing so it's imperative we find him before they do…"

Another long, seething silence which Inga endured with stoical calm.

"He could be half way across the continent by now!" he suddenly exploded.

Inga laughed casually, "Come on Peter, you've got contacts all over the place. The moment he starts touting for a buyer, you'll get to hear about it."

"That isn't the point though is it? I don't need this sort of hassle, not to mention expense. You know it's going to cost me a considerable amount to track Sachs down and obviously when I do locate him – and I hope for your sake, the merchandise too, I've got to arrange for a housekeeper to come and clean up the mess."

"I know and I'm sorry, Peter, I really am. Anything I can do to help…"

There was nothing in her tone to indicate she was offering anything other than 'help' but she knew he would be hearing it all the same. She had held him at arms' length for months now, reining in her naturally voracious appetite, safe in the knowledge that what he couldn't have only made him want it more. She had maintained her cool professionalism with difficulty as she felt a little bit of power shift her way. Although he stopped short of asking outright for sex, Peter Coates had made it abundantly clear that as his mistress she could expect to enjoy a particularly lavish lifestyle. But Inga was holding out for more. Whilst she was under no illusion that she could ever hope to share his empire on an equal footing, she did hope that given time, he could be persuaded to present her to the world as his right hand woman.

"Just keep a low profile, don't go asking too many questions. I'll put a few feelers out at this end and talk to you later, okay?"

"Do you want to meet up? Just let me know whatever it is you need me to do."

Again, no emphasis on anything; it was up to him to place his own interpretation on it and she knew that he would because now, in his eyes, she owed him.

Inga was mad at herself for not seeing the signs with Charlie. He was an open book usually, a malleable Hooray Henry who was more than happy to do her bidding. That he should do something like this off his own back was completely unexpected. And now, because of his sudden attack of spirit, she was going to have to step things up with Coates before she was ready.

"Depends how things are looking," he told her gruffly. "We'll see. And then in an even harder voice asked, "You going to be around tonight?"

"Yes, Peter."

Subservience. He liked that. And if required this evening, she would have the opportunity to show him more subservience – or domination, whichever he preferred. He would definitely find her worth the wait though.

* * *

Studio One was right next door to the Montgomery's – handy because it meant no one was aware of the amount of time Dempsey and Makepeace spent searching the place nor how quick they had been in gaining access.

That the report by the investigating police officers showed not a single thing of significance had been uncovered spoke volumes to the pair of them. Nothing noteworthy simply meant they hadn't looked hard enough. There had to be something, no matter how small and irrelevant it appeared to be.

The layout of the premises was very similar to theirs except there was just a small fire exit door and an extra window in place of the wide double doors.

There was very little of his work in evidence apart from a large wire armature half covered by papier-mache. It was impossible to tell what it was at this stage other than a two foot high rectangular block of some description.

As Masters had already mentioned, plaster residue seemed to rime every surface, thinly coating the floor in scuffed patches where several pairs of shoes had walked through it. The place was littered with large plastic buckets and other receptacles used for the mixing of the plaster and sacks of the stuff were stacked in one corner.

"Looks like our boys in blue have covered the obvious at least," said Makepeace, eyeing the white powdery mess that had spewed out of the knifed rent in each sack. The whole area was awash with it, the effects of gloved hands delving deep.

"Anything?" she asked, following Dempsey to the table that was strewn with sheets of printed documentation.

"Who knows! Hours of reading pleasure here."

He leafed through a handful. "Invoices, advice notes… all in no particular order." He sifted through another pile at random. "A friendly reminder that payment is due… a not so friendly reminder…"

Harry had picked up one of the piles, resting it thoughtlessly on her 'belly' as she flicked through. "Hardly surprising that he should forget to pay if this is representative of his accounting system."

"Final reminder," Dempsey continued.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "How much for?"

"Thirteen ninety-five."

She returned to her own search with a disgruntled sigh.

It was some time later when voices outside the studio drew their attention from the job in hand.

"Knockin' off time?" queried Dempsey, checking his watch. It was five o'clock.

"Goodnight you two," called Gloria.

Going to the door, Dempsey looked out to find Jenna and Gloria making their way down through the reception area, Frobisher on his lead at their heels.

"Goodnight ladies," he smiled.

"Don't stop too late dear," said Gloria, seeing Harry appear by Dempsey's side. "You need your rest."

"Oh, I won't," Harry assured her.

"Just about to call it a day ourselves in fact," said Dempsey and to be honest, he had actually had enough. He had the feeling they needed to cast the net a little wider to get some answers.

"You haven't turned anything up then?" Jenna asked blandly.

"Not a thing," replied Harry. "I think Gloria was right, we should just leave it to the police, they must know what they're doing."

Gloria smiled encouragingly. "Of course they do. Don't you go worrying yourself about Charlie, he'll turn up."

"Yeah, bad pennies always do," Jenna chipped in, gaining a look of disapproval from Gloria.

"Paul and Billy are still here. One or the other of them is always the last to leave so just drop the catch on your way out," she told them.

Jenna started for the door and when it looked like Gloria was about to continue the conversation, Harry stepped past her into the hallway saying, "Just need to pop and get my bag before we go."

Dempsey followed swiftly. "Yes, you have the car keys in there, right honey?"

Gloria looked disappointed at having lost the opportunity for a chat.

"See you in the morning," said Dempsey, bending to pet Frobisher.

The dog wagged his tail eagerly and Gloria was assuaged.

"Do you live close by?" she asked, sticking with Dempsey like glue whilst Makepeace fetched her bag.

"Quite close – just outside Richmond."

"Oh really? I have an aunt lives out that way…" she began brightly.

He jumped back in quickly, wanting to deflect any questions on an area of London he was completely unfamiliar with. "Although we're spending a few nights in a hotel whilst builders sort out a nursery for us."

Too late he realised he had just handed her a fresh new topic of conversation with which to batter him.

"Goodness me, how exciting! Just a few nights you say? We'd better hope it isn't any longer then, you know what these builders are like, turning up when they feel like it. Still, I'm sure they're well aware of their deadline and really I suppose staying in a hotel will be a nice little break for the both of you…"

_Jeez, did this lady ever quit beatin' her gums?_

"Okay, Gloria, I'm going to let you go now. We made dinner reservations in the hotel restaurant and I know Odette's planning a long soak in the tub first."

"Yes, yes of course. I mustn't keep you." She nodded, golden curls bobbing. "Frobisher and I have plans for this evening too, don't we my sweetheart?" she cooed to the bemused looking animal. "We're going for a nice long walk around the park this evening and we might even treat ourselves to an ice-cream."

Okay, so Dempsey felt just a little bit bad. Walking the damned dog was the highlight of her night? But then, what was gonna be the highlight of his… catching mini-bar peanuts in his mouth whilst laying on the bed watching crappy British shows on the hotel room TV?

Getting down on his haunches, Dempsey fussed Frobisher playfully.

"Well who's a lucky little fella? Walkies and ice-cream!"

Gloria laughed delightedly.

"Have a good night and you take care, Gloria, okay?" he told her as he straightened up again.

"Goodnight dear. We'll see you in the morning."

After the entrance door had shut behind her, Makepeace emerged from the Montgomery's studio, keys in hand.

"Is the coast clear?"

"Chicken!" he accused with a grin.

"She does go on rather."

Makepeace turned and locked the studio door, slipping the keys into her handbag.

Dempsey patted at his trouser pockets. "Where'd I put the keys for One?"

"I have no idea," she sighed. "Glove compartment, perhaps?"

Dempsey narrowed his eyes at her sarcastic reference before pulling the keys from the depths of his front left pocket. "Lucky for you I can appreciate your brand of humour, hah?" he grinned.

They moved to the next door along and she watched as he inserted the larger of the two keys into the lock.

"I thought I didn't possess one according to…" Makepeace stopped. "That's it!"

"That's what?"

She reached out and plucked the keys from his hand.

"On the keyring… The Raine Gallery, they were the ones hosting the party."

"Where you met Masters?"

"Yes," she nodded eagerly, "and I've got a feeling that's where I saw the delectable Inga too."

They both looked down at the silver and black printed key fob bearing the gallery name, address and telephone number before looking up at each other again.


	12. There's The Rub

**Chapter 12**

Makepeace had booked them two rooms at the Edmonton Hotel.

Spikings had protested of course, seeing his department expenses budget crumbling right before his very eyes but she had been adamant, insisting that two rooms with an interconnecting door was a perfectly reasonable state of affairs for an expectant couple. Tossing and turning during sleepless nights meant separate rooms was preferable and she assured Spikings it would be viewed as completely behaviour. Normal for the lords and ladies of the Home Counties he had told her but signed the chitty anyway.

Dempsey let them into the suite and immediately began checking out the facilities.

"Good sized en-suite, TV, mini-bar, king size bed… I'm happy," he announced, flopping down against the big fluffy pillows on one side of the bed.

"I just want a cup of tea and a nice long soak in the bath."

"Hey, go for it," he smiled, remembering his conversation with Gloria and how he had predicted _Odette's_ evening ablutions. "Want me to order up a pot of tea from room service?"

Her eyes closed momentarily and she smiled serenely . "That would be heaven."

He watched as she tried the handle of the connecting door.

She looked all-in.

"Hopefully by the time I've run the bath our bags will have been sent up," she said, half to herself.

She disappeared off into the other room and Dempsey had to call after her, "Whadya wanna do about dinner? We eating out or d'you wanna use the hotel restaurant?"

He heard her laugh shrilly.

"You can do what you like, Dempsey but I'm not setting foot outside this room again today. Once the bump is off, it stays off."

He heard the sound of running water and raised his voice accordingly in his response. "You want I should order up some food with this tea?" And without waiting for her reply asked, "Whadya want?"

"Anything. I really don't care but can you tell them I don't want it 'til 7:30pm?"

Dempsey shrugged. "Sure. Whatever."

Not bothering to read through the room service menu on the dresser, he rang down to the kitchen and asked for a brief run through before making his choice.

"Dinner 7:30pm. Tea on its way," he called out.

A knock on the door heralded the arrival of their luggage.

"Our stuff's here."

After bringing it into the room, he stood by the open connecting door and glanced inside. The water had stopped running.

"Dempsey, may I borrow you for a minute?"

She sounded ticked off and he entered with caution.

Makepeace was standing by the bed, the emerald green smock top she had been wearing thrown across the foot. She wore her leggings still and the oversized flack jacket that was the maternity bump. She also wore a flush of frustration upon her face.

"Would you mind unfastening this thing for me?" she asked curtly.

He'd forgotten but she'd mentioned before that it was virtually impossible to get out of it unaided and up until this point her friend Angela had been around to assist.

He wanted to laugh but he could see Makepeace was pissed.

"Sure, whadya need me to do?"

He moved towards her and the look in her eye was a silent warning.

"Down the back, it's a long Velcro flap and there are hooks and eyes underneath."

Standing behind her, he examined the fastenings for a moment. "Okay, let's see what we got here."

He began to rip apart the Velcro and realised how difficult it would be for the wearer to do it by themselves as the two sides just sprang back and reattached themselves to each other.

"I see your problem here, Makepeace. Tricky – like straight jacket tricky."

"Worse than a bloody straight jacket although I wouldn't be surprised if I end up insane if I have to wear it much longer," she grouched.

"Okay, I got it now." Holding the two edges apart with the sides of his hands, his fingers slowly worked down the row of little hooks until he reached the small of her back. Underneath she was wearing a thin white vest but where this ended, the Velcro seemed to continue down inside the leggings.

He gave a little tug at the waistband.

"Think this is as far as I go. Hooks are all done."

Makepeace reached down into the front of the leggings and deftly tore open the last section of Velcro that ran along the gusset.

"Thank you," she said with as much dignity in her voice as she could muster.

"My pleasure."

He saw her shoulders tense and knew she thought he was mocking her.

She bent forwards slightly, one arm wrapped around the bump and started shrugging awkwardly out of the broad straps.

"Lemme get that," he offered and stepped around the front of her to bear the weight, hoisting the thing up and away.

"Oh God, that's so much better," she groaned, stretching her back and neck muscles.

Dempsey dropped the bump down onto the bed. "Gotta hand it to ya, Babe, it can't be easy."

"Yes, and being as we're partners, I think it must be your turn to wear it tomorrow."

A glimmer of humour, even if it was deadpanned.

"Hey, ya know, if I could…" he grinned.

Harry smiled tiredly, rubbing at her shoulder as she rotated it up and around. "My shoulders are killing me and my back feels like it's been trampled on by a herd of burley rugby players. So you might have to, Dempsey."

Playfully, he sidled around her to knead at her shoulders with rigid fingers. "You want a shoulder rub? Take out some o' those knots?"

She shrugged away with a slightly irritated laugh. "No."

"Hey, I'm bein' serious." He clamped his hands back upon her shoulders cajolingly. "I mean it, sit your ass down here."

He hadn't given her a lot of choice and wearily she sank down onto the edge of the bed.

"The bath waters' getting cold," she griped even as her head fell forward.

"The bath water'll be just fine, Harry, now quit your whinin' and enjoy."

His thumbs dug hard into the lower part of the back of her neck and repeatedly swept her flesh in deep, powerful strokes whilst his fingers kneaded at her shoulders. He could feel she was incredibly tense; completely wound up and it made him all the more determined to break down that tension.

"You gotta relax, Princess. Feels like something's gonna snap here."

"I'm fine."

They both knew that wasn't true and Dempsey gave a low, smiling laugh.

"I have a feeling that the sooner we find Inga, the sooner we'll get to the bottom of this," said Harry. "It really is too big a coincidence, her connections to Montgomery and Masters and now Sachs himself when her name has never even found its way onto a police investigation sheet."

She was resisting, trying to keep it on a professional footing. They'd already discussed this on the drive to the hotel; talked about how Dempsey would visit the Raine Gallery, enquiring after the whereabouts of Inga on the pretext of wanting her to model for him. If what Masters had said was true and she had moved house a few months ago it would make sense that he was struggling to get hold of a new number for her.

He dug in a little deeper.

"We'll track Inga down tomorrow," he told her confidently.

"Mmm. Doesn't look the sort to hide her light under a bushel," Harry agreed tightly but he could hear the concentration she was having to inject in order to sound on the ball now.

Pushing his thumbs into the base of her neck, he began to feel her give way.

"Yep, don't think it's gonna be a problem," he said softly.

Harry's head fell even further forward, her thick blonde hair obscuring her face now.

"You're quite good at this, aren't you Dempsey?" she murmured.

He simply chuckled.

Her hair was damp with sweat at the nape of her neck and he could see that the white vest was sticking to her, moulding to her back in such a way as to make him curious to get a look at her front.

She made the tiniest sound, half way between a sigh and a gasp as his thumbs moved upwards.

"I still think we should ask Christopher Montgomery about her," Makepeace said, fighting against the deeply pleasurable experience Dempsey was providing.

"And I told ya, we don't need to involve him yet. I say we find out what we can for ourselves in case we need to give one of these artistic virtuosos enough rope to hang themselves with."

He kept his voice low and soothing, amused to see Makepeace turning to putty in his hands.

"You're probably right."

Was she actually agreeing with him?

He dared to spread his hands a little wider apart, edging over to her shoulders and clamping down hard to begin a deep, slow massage.

Harry groaned and then cleared her throat as though to cover up what she obviously thought of as a misdemeanour.

Dempsey grinned. So she had it in her and now he was gonna drag it out of her.

"Good?" he asked casually.

"Mm hm." It came out too high and squeaky like she had aimed for words but couldn't quite get them past her lips.

They had never been quite this intimate before outside of an undercover role. Yes there had been hugs sometimes but they were more hugs of congratulations on a job well done. Physical contact wasn't her forte he had noticed, at least not with him, which made the occasional grasping of his arm or touch of the shoulder all the more poignant. Dempsey himself was quite restrained around her which wasn't to say he kept his hands off her – he couldn't do that but if he let his tactile nature take over he knew there'd be a black eye in it for him. Sometimes he just wanted to grab a hold of her assets and…

He looked down, pulled from his thoughts by a soft moan from Makepeace.

"Okay, that's good," he said matter-of-factly. "I can feel all that tension disappearing."

It was true, her shoulders were sagging and he was pretty sure her eyes would be closed too.

Boy, she felt good. He was probably getting more out of this than she was!

"Better?" he asked but then realised she might think that signalled an end to it. "You still got a couple tight knots there, ha?"

He kept up his slow, rhythmical kneading but then he felt her twist everso slightly.

"Enough?"

"Lower," she told him without hesitation.

Dempsey moved his hands down a couple of inches.

"Lower," she repeated and as his thumbs jammed either side of her spine, she moaned again, louder this time. "Oh God, can you do it a bit harder?"

His lips curled into a smile and he had to make a conscious effort to bite back the innuendo that threatened to spill out. That Makepeace should say those words to him!

"I can, only I'm gonna need you to lie on the bed so's I can get some purchase."

As Makepeace slowly raised her head, the door buzzer sounded in Dempsey's room.

"That'll be room service," he said wistfully and Harry stood up abruptly, rubbing a hand along her shoulder blade, looking slightly perplexed.

"Ah, tea. Lovely"

Dempsey's eyes lingered just a little too long on her.

"I'll… ah…" he squooshed his lips together before running the hand along the back of his neck. "I'll just get that."

He pointed behind him, still unable to tear his eyes off her.

Harry looked back at him uncomfortably.

"Okay… I'll…" and he slunk out through the connecting door, cursing his lack of self control.

Harry scuttled back to the bathroom and her 'eau de l'hotel' bubble bath, standing before the wide expanse of mirrored glass over the vanity unit. She regarded her reflection with embarrassment. Her face was sweaty and glowing and her hair clung wetly at her neck. Gingerly, she plucked at the white vest, puling it away from her skin. It was wet through. She had sweated profusely underneath the heavy, insulating baby bump and the now semi-transparent material stuck to her skin uncompromisingly. And to make matters worse, despite the temperature, her nipples were standing out dark and stiff beneath.

No wonder he'd stared at her like that – it didn't take a genius to work out that whilst the neck rub had been easing some areas of her body, it had been stimulating others. And now he knew he had the power to do that to her!

There was a knock at the bathroom door and Dempsey called out that he'd leave the tea tray outside.

"Fine." Makepeace clenched her fists. "Thank you."

But he probably hadn't even heard her because a second later the connecting door thud firmly shut.

"Shit!" she whimpered and peeled off the vest angrily. "Shit, shit, shit!"

* * *

"I called Spikings," Dempsey told her when she finally emerged after an hour and a half. "They had a body turn up."

Makepeace looked up sharply. "They've found him? He's dead?"

"Nothing confirmed."

"Where? When?" she wanted to know

"Couple hours ago. Body answering Sach's description turned up someplace in Cornwall."

He pronounced it _Corn-waul._

"Sir Alan's on his way down there right now to I.D him."

"But Cornwall! What on earth would he be doing there?"

Dempsey shrugged. "Seems he was renting a place on the coast under a false name. The local police found a wallet containing cards and a driver's license in Sach's name."

Harry perched on the edge of the dressing table. "No word on how he died?"

"The old blunt instrument."

"Which hasn't been found."

"Natch."

"So now this is a murder investigation."

Dempsey smiled grimly. "An' that makes all our Weathervane Studio pals murder suspects."

"Which includes the Montgomerys," Harry pointed out, cocking an eyebrow. "Is Spikings bringing us in?"

"Nope. He wants us to dig deep for another forty-eight hours."

"But these people need to be taken in for questioning, their movements accounted for, statements taken…"

"Boss said forty-eight hours. The news is bein' kept out of the press, we investigate from the inside and see what they give up with a little light squeezing. Somebody knows somethin', they may just slip up if they think they're talkin' with brethren."

She nodded. "He's right I suppose."

She was over-warm in her very masculine navy blue pyjamas and began rolling back the sleeves.

Dempsey sensed a lack of enthusiasm but didn't comment, knowing she'd more than likely jump down his throat. Whatever was going on with her wasn't good; it was messing with the dynamics and threatening the case. Her heart just didn't seem to be in it. A combination of her little liaison with Paul Masters (which he had omitted to inform Spikings about) and dragging around the fat suit in this hot weather he supposed.

"He's havin' Inga looked into. Says they got names of a few of Sach's exes but no Inga. Don't mean to say she ain't on record though - Inga could be like a professional handle."

"True," Makepeace agreed. "These models do sometimes use a different name for work purposes, a stage name,and if the photographs Montgomery has are representative of her _work_, I can understand why."

The door buzzer went off for the second time that evening.

Dempsey saw her flinch at the sound.

Jeezas, she was a nervous wreck!

Frowning, he went to the door to let in room service and Harry retreated to the safety of her own room.

After a few minutes, Dempsey knocked and without waiting for a response, wheeled through the trolley bearing her dinner.

"Dinner is served," he announced. "You got Chicken Provencale with a Chocolate Roulade to follow."

Harry looked down at the two covered dishes, the one set of cutlery and the single napkin.

"Where's yours?" she asked, slightly surprised.

"I got a veal tagliatelle with my name drizzled all over it at Mangiamo right around the corner. Buon appetito, principessa."

Makepeace was left gazing at a closed door. He was going out to dinner, leaving her on her own in the hotel room for the rest of the night. She was disappointed. Somehow she'd managed to assume they would eat together. She had wanted to listen whilst he told her some of his silly tales of his old life in the N.Y.P.D. She had wanted him to take her mind off things – had _needed _him to but instead she was stuck with her own sorry company and far too much time to think.

Dempsey whistled as he took the lift down to the ground floor.

Better to be spending the evening people watching in a nice restaurant than alone in his room with a turkey club sandwich. Makepeace needed time to herself. She'd just wanted to get cleaned up, eat and grab an early night and he had to respect that even if he didn't believe it was necessarily the right way to go. If she would only talk to him… talk about what was bugging her but she was as bad at expressing her feelings as he was, if not worse.

His mind strained to relive the memory of the neck rub and he resisted it for a few moments but the memory was too potent and he found himself remembering the smell of her warm skin and its' smooth velvety texture beneath his fingertips. And when she had stood up to face him… well, the arousal had been mutual. He hadn't thought that he could ever get that kind of response out of her but it had happened – he had turned Harry on and she'd definitely put a spring in his pants! Made him kinda nervous; he'd never lost control that way before, not right in front of her anyways.

This case was turning out to have more implications than either of them had bargained on.

**Hope you're still enjoying it. Desperately seeking reviews as always. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far - it really does help. Nice to know what you're expecting/wanting to happen so I can sometimes surprise/titillate you with subsequent chapters ;-)**

**Abeed - You just knew the neck rub had to be #them ;-) I was never going to sway you, was I? lol**


	13. Daddy's Gone A-Hunting

**So it's Christmas Eve 2012! Here's the next chapter for you to read in bed tonight whilst you're waiting for Santa to pay a visit. It's not a very jolly chapter I'm afraid but you know there has to be angst before true feelings can be allowed to surface ;-)**

**Thank you so much for the reviews. Seems like I get more and more with each new story. Don't worry, I'm not expecting reviews on this chapter until the new year because I know everyone's got far better things to be doing :-D**

**Have a wonderful Christmas everyone.**

**XXX**

**Chapter 13**

"A friend's recommendation," Dempsey replied when the gallery assistant asked how he had heard about Inga.

"Oh, I see," smiled the gaunt, elegant looking woman.

A silvery-blonde plait hung down over one shoulder and long, spidery lashes framed her steel grey eyes. Early fifties, Dempsey guessed but still capable of turning heads, that was for sure. Ex-model herself maybe.

"And may I ask the name of your friend?" she asked silkily.

"Paul Masters. I'm sure you've heard of him," he said with an 'interested' smile which she acknowledged by return.

"Indeed I have. I like what he does very much. We've sold a couple of his paintings this year."

Dempsey cast an appreciative eye over her as he said, "So Paul thinks you might have Inga's new number."

She smiled coolly. "He's right, I might but I'm afraid I couldn't possibly go handing it out to just anyone."

"Then it's lucky I'm not just anyone," he grinned, holding out his hand. "Jim Dempsey."

"Helena Goodall."

They shook.

"Well I'm sorry Mister Dempsey, even if your name was Pablo Picasso, I couldn't go giving out Inga's personal details without her approval."

"You sure about that?" Dempsey asked. "I'm serious about wanting to work with her ya know."

"I don't doubt it but the way it works is that you give me your card and I pass it on, and then it's up to Inga to decide whether or not she wants to get in touch with you."

Dempsey held her eyes flirtatiously. "An' what if I don't have a card on me?"

Helena Goodall went to the little square table tucked away behind the staircase, her confident stride telling of a former catwalk career in Dempsey's mind.

She came back with a small tablet of paper and an exquisite little green lacquered ball pen. "I'm assuming you can remember your phone number?" She raised an eyebrow slyly.

He grinned. "Sure." He quickly jotted down the number of the Edmonton Hotel that he had managed to memorise. "Funnily enough I can. This is the hotel I'm staying at right now. She can get a hold of me here." He handed the tablet back to her and told her meaningfully, "I hope you remember it too."

Helena Goodall had been used to this sort of attention from men all her life but as she got older, the pool of admirers had lessened considerably. So when a very attractive man more than ten years her junior gave her the glad eye, although there were ulterior motives involved, she wasn't ungrateful.

"I'll see Inga gets this," she told him with an amused smile.

"You do that." He gave her his finest, darkest, smouldering look. "And don't forget that number, okay Helena? I'd love to take you out to dinner while I'm in town."

She waggled her left hand towards him. "It's very nice of you but I'm a happily married woman I'm afraid."

Dempsey shook his head sadly. "Hey, it's your husband who should be afraid, lettin' a beautiful woman like you outta his sight."

Helena Goodall rolled her eyes and laughed. "Don't worry, I'll see she gets it," she said, holding up the notebook bearing the Edmonton telephone number.

….

"Well?"

"I'm spiffing! You?"

"I meant," Harry smirked, "how did it go? Did you get Inga's contact details?"

"I'm expectin' to hear somethin' by the end of the day."

"That's a 'no' then."

"It's in the bag! Don't sweat it."

"I'm not. I have every faith in you and your powers of persuasion, Dempsey," she assured him. "Just as long as she didn't catch sight of your pregnant wife outside in the car."

He gave her a smug look as if to say, 'and what would you know?'

"Your body language," she explained coolly. "Even from here, it just reeked of hard-sell romance."

"Oh really. You sure about that?"

"Quite sure," she clipped.

Dempsey turned the engine over and pulled out into the traffic, a ghost of a smile playing about his lips.

She was good.

….

As arranged, Christopher Montgomery had spent a few hours at the studio last night honing the facial features of his sculpture into those of Harriet Makepeace and although not quite perfect, it was almost there.

The close-up snap shots she had provided lay in a haphazard pile, already slightly dog-eared and lagged up with streaky fingerprints of ruddy brown clay.

"Whadya think?" Dempsey asked.

"I think it's creepy," Harry replied as she took her turn at damping the clay down with the water spray.

He laughed. "Creepy? Creepy like skin-crawlin' creepy? I think it's kinda cute."

"It's a lifeless, soulless, inanimate object with my face."

He grinned mischievously. "Well, some might say…"

She rounded on him. "Some might say what, Dempsey? What might they say?"

She could feel herself losing it. She had tried so bloody hard this morning to keep calm, striving for a serenity which she knew, although unattainable, should at least be her goal.

"What is it exactly that gives you the right to criticize me? Who made you judge and jury, aye?" Her voice had risen in pitch and volume but she was past the point of harnessing her chagrin and the look of surprise on Dempsey's face appeared to her, in her frame of mind, to be a weakness. "You're always chipping away, aren't you with your snide little comments. I really don't care what you think of me but I have to say that quite frankly, this _character assassination_ has become rather boring."

Makepeace stood glaring at him with a fiery anger.

Under normal circumstances he might have retaliated with equal gusto but there was something about her recent behaviour that worried him. So instead, he seated himself wearily on the draughtmans stool.

"I think we need to talk about whatever it is that's causin' the problem here because the way things are right now, I don't think I can work this case with you."

She had been quiet this morning, knocking at the connecting door to ask for his help in fastening up the maternity bump and enquiring with the politeness of a stranger how he had enjoyed his evening. So he had told her, with enthusiasm, about his tagliatelle with the sauce that had been to die for, the passable Chiante, the loved up middle-aged couple who had fed each other throughout the entire meal and the waiter who looked like he'd been crying. Harry had smiled and nodded in all the right places but he could tell her mind was someplace else.

"And of course by _problem _you mean Paul Masters," Makepeace bristled. "You think my association with him is putting the case in jeopardy."

"That ain't it and you know it. We've been through that already."

He could feel his patience beginning to fray at the edges. "C'mmon, you think I don't know you? You think I can't see when something's wrong? Talk to me Harry!"

"I can't!" she threw back with angry frustration, her eyes glistening brightly.

"Bullshit! What's that s'pposed to mean, huh? You_ can't_." His own frustration had just broken the surface. "Nice to know my partner feels she can confide in me. What happened to trust, Harry?"

"It isn't a question of trust, it's… it's personal."

"Oh, okay, you shoulda said somethin' before," he flared, "I wouldn't be in your face if I'd of realised we're punchin' the f*ckin' clock here."

He slid off the stool, shaking his head. "Jeezas Christ."

Makepeace was stunned by his outburst.

"James… please." She moved towards him. "I'm sorry…"

Yes, she always held him at arms' length; it was safer that way but by shutting him out now she knew she was hurting him. Their relationship was a strange weave of finely meshed professional and personal threads – very much a love/hate relationship and it was therefore difficult to define her feelings sometimes. She only knew that she was bound to him, tied up with confusing, nonsensical emotions that could make her act and react in an often unsuitable manner.

Sometimes she thought that in a perverse, contrary sort of way, she might even be a tiny bit in love with him.

He scowled down at her, anger darkening his eyes and she realised now that he had lost all patience with her. Her short temper and vile mood swings had finally got the better of him.

"Yeah, you're sorry, like that's gonna make a difference," he threw out sonorously. "Sorry don't mean nothin', it's just a word that gets you off the hook until the next time."

Makepeace had a pacifying hand on his forearm and her grip tightened as he tried to pull away. "Don't be like this…"

"Like what?" he spat. "I'm walkin' around in the dark, sweetheart 'cause you won't turn on the light and if you can't be straight with me there's a danger this is gonna screw us up big time."

There came a sharp, staccato rap on the studio door before it was shoved open forcefully and Paul Masters stood framed in the doorway.

"Sorry to bother you," he said sarcastically, glowering at Dempsey.

This unexpected entrance had stunned both of them and there was an awkward silence for a moment or two.

"I heard _voices_." Masters pitched the word to make sure he got his meaning across. Raised voices, angry voices… a man intimidating his pregnant wife. "Everything okay, is it?"

He continued to glare at Dempsey.

"Everything's fine," said Dempsey, neutrally.

Masters glanced at Harry as though to confirm this and Dempsey felt himself prickle. Where did this knucklehead get off, bursting in here to defend a one night stand from her husband?

He quickly back-tracked on the conversation, trying to recall anything that was said which may have exposed their cover but nothing stood out other than words like, _trust, sorry, _and _screw-up _and a certain amount of heart-felt blasphemy.

It occurred to him for a second that Masters might possibly think they had been rowing about him, that the truth was out. But no matter how big a moron, would he really have the guts to put himself in the firing line like that?

"Sorry about that," said Makepeace with an apologetic smile. "Were we being a bit over-zealous?"

Masters smiled back unconvincingly. "Something like that, yes."

"Okay," Dempsey said blandly. "I'm going back to the hotel to sort that stuff out with them."

He noted the look of discomfort on her face with some satisfaction. "I'll be back later."

She didn't want to talk to him? She could talk to Paul Masters instead.

"Dempsey, you can be such a bitch," he muttered to himself as he left the Weathervane Studios.


	14. Cross Questioning

**HAPPY NEW YEAR!**

**So this is kind of a commemorative chapter because tonight was the night when #thegirls won the Dempsey & Makepeace Sweatshirt (#thejumper) on Twitter which was donated by Glynis and auctioned off by MND Scotland. What a night!**

**Also, a big "Hello" to Goroslin who visited London this week and met up with a couple of #thegirls. Hopefully a few more of us will get to meet you this year. Truly amazing how many have met up through this FanFiction website.**

**Chapter 14**

At the hotel, Dempsey explained to the receptionist that he was expecting a phone call any time but that the caller would be asking for his friend, Jim Dempsey who unfortunately hadn't been able to make the trip.

The receptionist, treating him to a tight-lipped professional smile told him that whilst she would do her best to ensure the call was transferred correctly, the Edmonton Hotel was not able to provide secretarial services to its' guests. Despite an overwhelming desire to ram a customer service lesson down the woman's throat, Dempsey instead turned on the charm, pledging eternal gratitude if this little deed could be performed. He also threw in some spiel about it being a shame that the trip had to be cancelled because he and his wife had been hoping that their friend would have been around long enough to meet the new baby.

The middle aged receptionist softened visibly, agreeing that indeed, it was a great shame.

"So the call will be from a client of Jim's," Dempsey filled her in casually. "If she thinks she isn't going to be able to deal with him direct, I'm worried she might turn tail and run so if you didn't mention the fact that she's going to have to talk to the monkey rather than the organ grinder, I'd very much appreciate it."

"I'll make a note," the receptionist assured him, reaching for a pen and paper.

"Oh and if I'm not around but my wife is…"

A tiny frown marred her face.

"… Odette is completely au fait with the situation and will be quite happy to take the call."

A warm and approving smile. He might be an American but he was very charming with it, rather handsome and a definite family man.

"I'll make sure Janie is aware of your request when she comes back off her break and I'll leave this note for the night shift – just in case."

Dempsey beamed. "Pat, you're a wonder," he told her. "Thank you so much."

And then he took the lift up to the rooms to find out from SI-10 if the boys had turned anything up on Inga.

* * *

"So, how are you?" Masters asked once Dempsey had safely departed. "How have you been?"

Makepeace could feel the pressure building in her head.

"Look, Paul, I really don't want to do this. You know the truth so let's just leave it at that shall we?"

"I thought about you for weeks afterwards… well, about Harry. Wondered why you'd just disappeared like that, I mean, we'd had a great night together. At least, I'd thought we had."

She refused to be drawn.

"But of course, it all makes sense now…"

Harry sighed, her eyes on the ground, trying to convey disinterest.

"Small world, isn't it?" he said into the quietude with a dash of irony.

She rolled her eyes. "Oooh, yes."

"I don't get it though, I mean, married, pregnant…" He laughed shortly. "Very pregnant! I'm just astounded I couldn't tell. Not that I know much about these thing but even so…"

She looked to him briefly and shrugged.

"Why?" he asked simply

This was so hard; answering for Odette, pretending to have reasons for an entirely different set of circumstances when she wasn't even too sure of her own reasons.

"Look, Paul," she faltered, "it was just one of those things. Christopher and I weren't seeing eye to eye at the time and I was feeling quite down."

"The gambling you mean?"

She nodded. "So can we just leave it at that? I realise I behaved abysmally and I'm certainly not proud of what I did."

"When I heard you arguing just now it crossed my mind that he'd found out… about us I mean."

"Then it probably wasn't the wisest of decisions to come down here," Harry said uneasily.

"It was either that or wait for him to come up, all guns blazing." He smiled gently. "I was displaying a backbone."

"Very macho – or very stupid"

Paul sighed and meandered over to the sculpture which was now on full display. Silently, he looked it over from a fellow artist's viewpoint.

"I'm not going to cause any trouble for you. Your secret is safe with me." He looked across at her. "Suppose I'm just – disappointed."

"I'm sorry," she answered defensively. "I don't know what else I can say."

"You know, I can't quite make your husband out," he replied after a few moments. "He's a real mixed bag isn't he? Interesting sort of fella – just not the sort I'd have put you with."

Without even considering what her reaction to that _should_ be, she felt a stab of pique.

How would he know what her _sort_ was? And besides, he didn't know Dempsey, not the real Dempsey, not like she did.

"Maybe I'm a mixed bag too , Paul."

Unconsciously she fixed him with a belligerent stare.

"Sorry, I didn't mean anything by it," Masters apologised but then he seemed to harden a little. "This was just as much a shock for me as it was for you, you know… more so! At least I am who I claimed to be."

Harry wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole. This undercover role gave her a fake excuse but it didn't stop her from remembering her real, inexcusable reason for sleeping with him. She had 'used' him; used his physical body to satisfy the desires she denied herself and that was just the uncomplicated, innocent version of events. Hearing Paul Master's simple interpretation made her feel even grubbier and guiltier than ever.

"I've said I'm sorry," she told him flatly. "I can't change what happened."

"Good," Masters smiled, "because I wouldn't want to."

Harry felt her cheeks redden.

"Paul…" she said warningly."

"Don't worry, I realise I'm completely out of the running." He gestured towards her faux belly. "So if you weren't rowing about me, what were you rowing about? Nothing serious? I'd have thought the last thing you need right now is any kind of aggro."

"We've got problems with the builders who are doing the nursery, that's all."

"Ah. I see."

But Harry got the feeling he didn't quite believe that.

Then he said brightly, "Well, you know where I am if you want anything – not that you'll be coming to the studios for very much longer I don't suppose."

Harry followed him as he turned towards the door. "No, not long now. I hope."

* * *

"Still don't have a surname," Chas told him.

Dempsey sat down on the edge of the bed with the phone base resting on one knee.

"Then someone ain't been diggin' deep enough. Everybody's got a last name, even God has a last name."

"Has he?" asked the harassed detective.

"Sure. You know, like, God Almighty," yelled Dempsey, "are you foolin' with me here?"

He scooped up the phone and threw himself back on the bed. "Seriously Chas, how difficult can that be? Lemme guess, you got that dickweed Fry on it, right?"

"Frank and Dave, actually."

"Yeah? Well you can tell 'em from me, I'm starting to doubt either of them could find their ass with both hands!"

His attitude was beginning to grate on Chas. "We're doing what we can, Dempsey. This is the legwork plod should've covered days ago. We're playing catch-up at this end."

Dempsey groaned. "Yeah, okay, okay, I get it. Sorry Chas."

He scrubbed a hand through his hair and tried to concentrate.

"You alright?" Chas asked.

"Me? No problem. But I think the broad with the balls of steel may have gone a little soft on me."

He instantly felt a twinge of disloyalty. Makepeace was his partner and deserved his respect at least.

"Strike that Chas," he added quickly. "The art world ain't all it's cracked up to be is all."

He forced himself to smile. "So, the lovely Inga remains a mystery to the Metropolitan Police Force, huh? We'll see if a New York cop can expose her deep, dark secrets."

* * *

"I've been looking for you," said Jenna.

"I was downstairs talking to Odette," Masters told her as she followed him back into his studio.

"And?"

"And what, Jenna?" he asked tersely.

She tutted. "Does she know anything?"

"Why would she?"

He picked up a thick pig bristle brush and began wiping it on an already paint besmirched cloth.

"Because they're friends of Charlie's, aren't they?"

"That being the case, they'd have informed the police of anything relevant."

She plonked herself down on the cluttered desk. "Would they?" she asked wilfully.

Masters looked up, fixing her with a critical eye. "I know what you're thinking Jenna."

"So don't pretend you haven't thought the same thing. You know better than most that she's like poison, leaking into the system," she laughed scornfully, "spreading herself about."

"Still doesn't mean the Montgomerys know anything."

Jenna absently tugged and preened at the black elastic bands that held small bunches of hair in an outlandish arrangement on top of her head. "Bet you they know more than they're letting on. There's something about them… I can't quite put my finger on it."

"They're harmless enough."

"How can you be sure? How can you be sure they're not involved?"

Masters returned to cleaning the brushes.

"Because they don't know her. They don't know anything about her. Christopher was asking me questions yesterday while he was looking at the paintings I did of her."

"And ask yourself why he'd do that, Paul," Jenna said with childish sarcasm as she switched to twisting the bangles on her arm. "Why was he asking questions about Inga?"


	15. Hot Gossip

**Are you still enjoying the story? Is it one of your favorites yet? ;-)**

**Thank you to 'Ange Noir' and 'Louise' for your reviews. I can't reply personally because you reviewed as guests but want you to know that I appreciate the feedback.**

**So here's a bit more of the story...**

**Chapter 15**

Makepeace made herself a cup of instant coffee, strong and with barely enough milk to even tint it.

"Oh God!" she groaned and slumped across the bench for a moment in frustration.

But then she righted herself, sniffed and mentally berated herself for her weak and watery comportment. It was work; her job and if she had been unlucky enough for that job to encroach upon her private life then she just had to deal with it as best she could. That didn't involve sitting here mulling over her misfortune.

Dempsey had left her with Paul Masters as punishment for her bad attitude. She had pushed him too far and she knew it but just hadn't been able to curb her emotions – the memories were so surprisingly painful.

"Right."

Harry pushed herself to her feet. It was time to get back to catching a murderer.

Leaving her unfinished coffee on the bench, she took the stairs up to Studio 3.

* * *

"Don't stand on ceremony," Gloria called. "Come in."

Harry received a pleasant surprise on entering Gloria's domain.

She looked about her, a smile of genuine delight illuminating her face.

"Hello dear," sang Gloria.

"Hello," Harry returned, a curious wonderment deepening her voice. "This is absolutely lovely, Gloria!"

"Oh, do you think so?"

"I certainly do."

Harry gazed about the room which was almost unrecognisable as being part of the Weathervane Studios. There were no white plastered walls and plastic chairs here, in fact, it resembled the interior of a country cottage sitting room. Where the other studios had been boxed in and squared off, this room had had the boarded up fireplace restored to its' former glory and two large wing-backed armchairs stationed either side of it.

Opposite these was a chintzy two-seater sofa and in the middle, a low, solidly built old pine table. Two tall pine cupboards, a couple of Ottomans and a bookcase housing what appeared to be textile craft books were ranged around the room along with a cleverly fashioned and incredibly detailed quilted wall hanging of a painstakingly hand-stitched pastoral scene.

"I couldn't bare those sterile surroundings everyone else puts up with. This is how I like it, home from home."

Harry laughed, her ugly mood lifting steadily. "So I see. Forgive me for asking but why _don't _you work from home?"

Putting down the little square of duck egg blue fabric she was sewing, Gloria gestured for her to sit.

"Because," she said happily, "I like having company. My Frobisher isn't much of a conversationalist and I do enjoy a good chin-wag you see."

At the mention of his name, the dog hopped from his bed between the bookcase and one of the Ottomans and trotted up to her.

"Not at all talkative, are you my handsome boy?" Gloria cooed, petting his head.

Harry sank gratefully into the comfortable old leather chair. "Even so, I can't imagine you see that much of anyone here during the day do you? Don't they more or less keep to their studios?"

"There's always somebody about," Gloria smiled as she bustled over to the corner of the room and pulled aside a floor length velvet curtain to reveal a tiny kitchenette. "I'll make us a nice pot of tea and we can have a chat while I finish that bit of stitching up."

"Lovely," Harry thanked her.

The last thing she needed was any more to drink but she knew that gossip would flow along with the tea.

"I rather get the impression you've taken Billy under your wing, Gloria."

"Billy? Oh he's a very sweet boy. I love him to bits. Between you and I, I don't think he's had much of a family life," Gloria confided. "No father figure to speak of and his mother isn't really interested in him."

"Oh that's a shame. Does he still live at home?"

Gloria made a disgruntled sound. "Home? He's got a bedroom in his mother's flat but I think he feels more at home here at Weathervane to be honest, dear."

Gloria was arranging cups and saucers on a tea tray as she spoke.

"He's got an old soul, that one."

"Oh?" asked Harry.

"Sensitive. Feels things quite deeply."

She poured milk from a milk bottle into a jug.

"He's a metal artist, is that right?"

The kettle came to the boil and Gloria poured water into the china teapot.

"Bit of a poet too but don't let on I told you that," she beamed.

Frobisher came and sniffed at Makepeace's legs.

"You know, I think Charlie may have mentioned him once or twice. I seem to remember him saying he's something of a loner," she guessed.

A shadow passed over Gloria's face. "Yes, well, Charlie would say that, him being such an extrovert. He teases Billy all the time, the poor boy, just because he's quiet and likes to keep himself to himself."

She brought the tea tray across. "If you could just…" Harry pulled aside a pile of quilting to make space. "Which isn't necessarily a bad thing if you ask me. Charlie's a lovely man, don't get me wrong but it's high time he grew up if you ask me."

She suddenly looked embarrassed. "I'm terribly sorry, I keep forgetting he's a friend of yours."

Makepeace laughed lightly and took the paw Frobisher was offering her. "No, really, it's fine. He's more Christopher's friend than he is mine and I quite agree with you, he does need to grow up…"

"Oh, he likes you!" Gloria chirruped. "He doesn't like just anyone you know. He can't stand Marion – that's my sister who lives in Suffolk…"

Makepeace saw she was going off at a tangent and tried to drag her back. "He needs to find himself a decent girl and settle down. He's too old to be playing around like he does. I'm sure marriage would be the making of him but as I said to Christopher, he always seems to get himself involved with… well…" She saw she had Gloria's attention again.

"Floozies!" spat Gloria with conviction.

Makepeace had to supress a chuckle. "Quite." She was clearly on the right track but did Gloria know he'd been spotted with Inga? "Charlie seems to attract unsuitable women."

She accepted the cup and saucer she was handed.

"It's true I suppose?" asked Gloria with distaste. "He's seeing that awful Inga woman?"

At last! A break-through.

"I didn't know until yesterday – Paul told Christopher. Who exactly is she?"

"Calls herself a model." Gloria pursed her lips with disapproval. "I call her a dirty little tramp."

"That bad?" Makepeace found herself quite intrigued. "Maybe why Charlie hasn't mentioned her."

"Ashamed of himself no doubt."

Then Makepeace asked, "Inga wouldn't by any chance be the 'dolly bird' Jenna was referring to yesterday? She seemed quite huffy about it and I thought it seemed a bit odd at the time."

Gloria sipped delicately at her tea. "Jenna's sweet on Charlie but I'm afraid he just isn't interested – different class I suppose. As far as I know she doesn't know Paul saw him and Inga together though."

"And what is it that makes Inga so terrible?" Makepeace wanted to know.

"Morals of an alley cat! The stories she used to tell me!" she expounded, her hand flicking the air. "I think a lot of it was said just to shock me; that type of person you see, said and did things for dramatic effect. Used to waltz around here with next to nothing on, just this flimsy little wrap to cover her modesty in between sitting for Paul."

The dog gave a little whimper and she stood up with a smile. "Does Frobisher want his doggie biccies?"

She went to the kitchenette and took a box of Bonios from the shelf.

"And she was having an affair with Paul wasn't she?" Makepeace pursued.

The lips pursed again. "Well…"

"He mentioned it to Christopher yesterday."

"Did he?" She seemed relieved that she had been handed a legitimate excuse to gossip. "Lead him such a merry dance by all accounts. I used to tell him, Paul, she's no good for you. She's no good for any half decent man, I'd say. But he was besotted of course, couldn't see beyond that flaming red hair and those long legs. Typical man – gullible when it comes to a pretty face. She bled him dry and then dumped him but not before she'd made good and sure she'd got her hooks into her next victim."

She came and sat back down with a plate of bourbon creams and Frobisher danced for his Bonios.

"Have a biscuit dear."

"Oh?" Harry queried the 'victim' statement as she nibbled at a bourbon.

"Oh yes, dear! Took great delight in telling me she was having an affair with a married man. Tried to give me all the sordid details but I didn't want to know. She's one of these 'swinging from the chandelier' types if you know what I mean." Gloria gave a little shudder and whispered, "A nymphomaniac is my guess."

A married man. That would certainly tie in with the photographs they had found amongst Montgomery's things. He could easily be the married man.

"She even tried it on with Billy would you believe? Threw herself at him and you know how shy Billy is. He couldn't even bring himself to tell me about it until after she'd gone."

"She sounds a nightmare, Gloria! When did she finally go?"

"Around October last year. I was glad to see the back of her I can tell you. She could be very rude, very insulting. Used to say I didn't know what I was missing and alluded to all sorts of things… well, you can imagine."

Her cheeks flushed at the things that had been left for Harry to imagine.

"How awful," Harry sympathised. "So do you think there's a chance Charlie's run away with this Inga woman?"

It's a possibility… but if she was going to run away with any man, it would only be because he'd made it worth her while."

"Mmm," mused Makepeace almost to herself. "Charlie certainly wasn't in any position to make it worth her while, not that we know of anyway."

"Well there's your answer then," said Gloria and she began pouring them both another cup of tea.


	16. Mojito And Bud

**This is quite a long one... as Inga said to the detective and seeing as it's Inga's birthday today (12th January) it's quite appropriate that this chapter should feature her from start to finish.**

**Warning - Leans a little towards an 'M' rating at the end. **

**DO NOT read the end first (you know who you are) because you'll only spoil it for yourself ;-)**

**HAPPY BIRTHDAY INGA... you dirty little tramp!**

**Chapter 16**

"Thanks, Pat," said Dempsey, handing his room key over to the receptionist.

Pat, who had seen his arrival in the lift and watched his walk to the desk with excited anticipation now held his eyes meaningfully as she said, "Err, Sir…?"

She directed her gaze discreetly towards the reception seating area. Dempsey didn't need any more prompting

Swiftly, he made his way across to the beauty sitting watching him through lowered lashes.

"Well, I certainly recognise you, sweetheart," he said smoothly. "James Dempsey," he introduced himself, extending his hand.

"Hello Mister Dempsey," she said before actually taking his hand.

They didn't shake – their fingers just curled together as Dempsey inclined his head.

"What say we take this through to the bar? I'd like to buy you a drink."

"Isn't it a bit early?"

"We'll pretend we're on New York time."

"Then I think that would make it _very_ early."

"So then we're havin' a nightcap," Dempsey smiled playfully.

Inga rose gracefully and Dempsey caught the heady, sultry scent of her perfume as she preceded him through the swing door to the Jones Bar.

"It's five-thirty in the morning," she purred. "We must be real party animals."

Dempsey followed her in, eyes running over her from the back.

"Maybe we'll get to test that out on London time."

The barman was going over an order sheet with a biro in his hand. He looked up in surprise as the early drinkers approached. Although the bar was open, it was rare to have anyone to serve at this hour.

"Hello. What can I get you?"

"A Mojito I think." Inga slid onto a bar stool. "You do have fresh mint don't you?"

"Yes Miss."

"An' I'll take a beer. Budweiser."

Dempsey turned to her. "So, I wasn't expectin' to get to meet you in person quite this soon."

"I was curious."

Studying her at close quarters, Dempsey liked what he saw. Her mouth was painted a deep burgundy to match her nails and her eye make-up was a heavy, smoky brown shade. Framed by a mass of Pre-Raphaelite auburn hair and dressed in a low cut, long diaphanous dress, her appearance was at once theatrical and bohemian.

She was stunning.

"Curious?" he asked after a rather obvious delay.

"I can't imagine what sort of _recommendation _Paul Masters gave me. We didn't part on particularly friendly terms so I'm wondering what it was he did or didn't say."

"Does it matter?" Dempsey asked.

Inga smiled, her lips parting just a little. "Not to me," she told him casually.

The barman placed a Mojito cocktail in front of her and quickly followed up with Dempsey's beer.

"May I ask your room number please Sir?"

"Huh?" Dempsey asked, not taking his eyes off Inga.

"So I can charge it to your room, Sir."

He reeled off the number quickly and continued, "Then we can start our association with a clean slate."

Inga raised her glass and drew the straw between her lips. "Who says we're starting anything?" she smirked. "I'm just here to give you the once over. You knew what you were getting with me James, whereas I don't know you from Adam, now do I?"

She took a packet of cigarettes out of her bag and lit one.

"I'm harmless," he told her.

Inga leant back lazily on the bar watching him. "Somehow I doubt that."

She blew smoke upwards and picked up her glass again. "Bottoms up," she said before drinking down the rest of her Mojito. "You can buy me another if you like."

"Thirsty?"

"Always."

Dempsey attracted the barman's attention and indicated a replacement was required.

"American," he observed, picking up the pack of More that she had dropped down on the bar.

"I find them aesthetically pleasing," Inga told him with amusement, putting the slim brown cigarette between her lips provocatively.

Dempsey chuckled softly, turning the green packet over in his hands. "And would the American thing apply as a general rule?"

She regarded him humorously. "I don't like rules."

"Me neither." He pushed the cigarettes back towards her. "Life is hard, then you die."

Inga laughed loudly, throwing her head back and Dempsey noted with a twinge of interest the way in which the fabric of her dress stretched tight across her unfettered breasts.

"Then they throw dirt in your face," she quoted back to him.

"Then the worms eat you," he returned.

And with satisfaction she finished, "Be grateful it happens in that order."

They laughed.

"David Gerrold. Never met no one who could finish that quote before."

"It's exactly my philosophy. Why make life any harder with rules?"

The barman, recognising the free spirits at play was little more than a shadow as the fresh cocktail appeared discreetly before Inga.

"You got any cigars back there?" Dempsey asked and chose from the small selection offered him.

"I think I like you, James," Inga smiled, watching him take the cellophane from the fat Havana, rolling it gently in between finger and thumb and guillotining the end.

"Then do you wanna do this gig for me nor not?"

He spent a few seconds charring the end of the cigar before applying a match and drawing it to life.

Inga crossed her legs and made a show of looking him over.

The second half of the bottle slid down a little too easily. It was a warm day, the beer was ice cold and Inga… Inga was one hot chick.

"Cool your heels, cowboy. I want you to tell me what this 'gig' is first. All I know is what I've been told by my gallery contact and whilst, 'There's a gorgeous Yank wants you to sit for him,' covers the basics, I'd quite like to know who this gorgeous Yank is and where he'd want me to sit."

The circuitous compliment hit the spot it was intended for and Dempsey obscured the grin with a brush of his thumb.

"Can think of a couple places," he muttered under his breath and then waxed lyrical, "I'm just a humble artist who needs a beautiful body to sculpt outta clay. Wanna mould ya, baby."

"Could get messy."

Inga drew on her cigarette before taking up her cocktail in the same hand, a hint of a smile on her lips.

"How 'bout I promise to keep my hands on the clay?" asked Dempsey.

"Mmmm," she murmured into the drink and he couldn't tell whether it was the taste that was gratifying her or his suggestion. But then he found out which it was when she said coquettishly, "You're not selling yourself to me."

Dempsey raised his hand holding the cigar to draw the barman's attention and indicated that they wanted more drinks.

"So why don't you tell me what it is you need from me?"

Inga smiled slyly as she looked down into her Mojito, playing with the straw in her fingers. "What is it I need from you," she repeated slowly as though wrestling with the meaning of life itself. "Well I'd like to know if you're any good for a start."

"At…? Dempsey queried flippantly.

That question would have been enough to make some women blush but instead, Inga trumped him by replying, "Good with your hands, James." She put the glass down and carelessly reached for his left hand, pulling it towards her.

"Long fingers. You've got artists hands and you're great in bed," she announced as she moved her fingertips down the length of his hand.

Dempsey was starting to enjoy himself. Inga conversed in his language.

"Oh yeah? It's the truth baby, but how would you know that?" he played along.

"I just told you. You weren't paying attention. Long fingers."

"Meaning I'm a sensitive kinda guy?"

Inga let his hand fall. "No idea. I'm only interested in the practicalities."

Flexing his fingers, Dempsey marvelled at her brazenness. He realised he was in danger of forgetting the real reason for the meeting if the conversation carried on in this vein for much longer.

Thankfully, the barman arrived with the next round.

"We got a tab runnin' here?

"Yes, Sir."

"Then keep 'em comin', pal."

Aware that she was one drink ahead of him and that the cocktails were stronger than Budweiser, he was confident her tongue would loosen before he lost the plot.

"So," Dempsey grinned, focusing his attention on her, which really wasn't too hard to do.

She regarded him with a cool expectancy but said nothing.

"The practicalities."

Inga looked at her wrist watch. "We've known each other less than an hour…"

"I'm talkin' the hows, whys and wherefores… for now."

She raised an eyebrow.

He sat back then and scratched at the back of his head. "Look, you were right about Paul. Wasn't exactly a recommendation. Fact is, he warned me off of you."

"Did he now?" she smirked.

"But I was the kind o' kid – my Mama told me 'no', just made me wanna do it all the more."

"My _Mama _always said you had to learn by your own mistakes."

"Wise words."

He watched her pick up her third drink as he fingered the bottle neck of his second Budweiser.

"I'm starting my new project next month, after I get settled in the new premised I got lined up."

"And where's that" she asked.

"Weeeeeeell," Dempsey drew out, feigning reluctance to divulge the information. "Don't know how you'll feel about this but think I'm gonna be renting a studio at Weathervane."

"With Paul still there?" she chuckled. "Could be cosy I suppose."

"Yeah, there's some guy gone AWOL apparently so it looks like there's gonna be a vacancy."

Dempsey watched carefully for some sort of reaction but there was none.

"Dude name of Charlie Sachs," he tried again. "You know him, right?"

"Our paths might have crossed," she admitted.

"Police involved and everythin'. Word is he ran up some serious debts at the Roulette wheel and had to take off before his creditors took an ice pick to his kneecaps."

Inga twizzled her straw between her fingers and her eyes flickered downwards momentarily.

"Exciting! And whose 'word' was it?"

"Paul said the cops practically trashed Sach's studio and came up with zilch. The main guy on the case told him he thought they were wasting their time on a rich kid outta his depth. Sach's old man is some kinda government official, right?"

"Is he?" She shrugged. "I don't know Charlie that well."

"No? Thought you were _doin' your thang _in the studio right next door."

"I was. So why would I be chatting to him about his parents?" she asked sarcastically, stubbing out her cigarette.

Dempsey held his hands up. "Hey, only askin', babe."

"If you really want to know, I don't particularly like the guy. He's a prick. Small man, big ego. You know the type."

The barman cleared away her empty glass whilst Dempsey still nursed his second beer.

"Sure. You had a run in with him?"

"No, just a clash of personalities."

It occurred to Dempsey that Paul Masters could be lying about having seen them together, that it was a smokescreen for his own involvement in Sachs' disappearance only somehow he doubted it. Masters had been the one who had brought the police into this and his rap sheet was clean. Course, if Masters did know something, it would look pretty bad for Makepeace when their undisclosed relationship was brought to light.

He leaned forward. "Whereas some people just seem to click right away."

"They do, don't they." She lit another cigarette.

_Jeezas! Under different circumstances they'd be putting that hotel room to good use by lunchtime! But sleeping with a suspect was never a good idea._

"So you think you'd be okay working at the Weathervane place again?"

"What, because of Paul being there d'you mean?" she laughed. "It's him you should be asking, not me. I don't give a shit – oh and I have no scruples or morals either but I suppose he told you that."

"He did. Why else would I of been so anxious to meet you?" He made a little gesture towards her. "Other than the beautiful face and the body that shouldn't have gotten past the censors."

She actually giggled then, maybe a sign that the alcohol was kicking in.

"Is that a nice way of saying you like my tits and arse?"

In his head, he suddenly heard somebody else saying those words. Must've been the slightly pompous tone, the sarcastic vibe… which was weird 'cause that string of words would never had left those full, moist lips o' hers in a million years.

"What?" she asked curiously.

She'd picked up on his distraction.

"Sorry. Zoned out for a second there. Imagination workin' overtime."

"I love a man with imagination."

He chuckled deeply. "Speaking of imagination, seems I gotta guess your last name! Paul, Helena at the gallery… how come nobody seems to know it?

"Because I don't need it." She sucked up the last of her Mojito. "How many women do you know with the name, Inga?"

"I see your point. Where'd that name come from anyhow?"

The barman hovered as he collected the glass up.

"Like I said, keep 'em comin'" Dempsey instructed.

"My mother's Swedish."

"And your dad?"

"From exotic Wolverhampton," she whispered.

"I don't even know where that is but it's funny just the same," he laughed.

_Not much to go on. Mightn't even be true._

"Not funny living there, I can tell you. Bloody dump. I got out when I was seventeen and haven't looked back since."

Fourth cocktail.

"And what about you, James? How did you find yourself in The Big Smoke? You're a lot further from home than me."

Dempsey drained his second bottle of Budweiser. "We ain't talkin' 'bout me, sweetheart. It's you I'm interested in and let me tell ya, I ain't gonna let up 'til you've revealed all."

Her knee nudged against his as she laughed. "Ah, you're not playing fair. It comes naturally to me – it's what I do for a living."

Dempsey puffed a haze of blue-grey smoke up into the air.

"Then I hope you're gonna work hard for me, Inga."

* * *

"I've never f*%ked a cop before," Inga panted, feeling his breath hot and ragged on the back of her neck.

"I find that hard to believe."

"You're right, I wouldn't bet money on it. Maybe I have and just didn't realise it," she laughed.

He dragged her head to one side by yanking on a fistful of her flaming hair and lowering his mouth to hers, kissed her roughly.

"You're a dirty little tramp, d'you know that?"

"And you wouldn't want me…" she inhaled sharply, feeling cruel fingers gouge into her shoulders, "… any other way."

"True."

"Just think, tonight it could be him where you are now. Lieutenant James Dempsey," she said lasciviously.

"You're shameless."

"You're jealous."

"Even if I was, would it make any difference?"

"It might. If you're a good boy, I might let you watch."

He laughed shortly and sucked in a steadying breath.

"I fed him so much bullshit it's a wonder he didn't choke. It was all I could do not to fall off my bloody barstool, I wanted to laugh so much."

He didn't object to conversation, it took his mind away from the glories of her body and pulled him back from the edge.

"Are you sure he swallowed it? Dempsey's no pushover."

"Of course he did! It was a reflex action. He couldn't concentrate on the answers I was giving him _and_ keep control of his dick at the same time, could he?"

"If he finds out I've blown their cover, I'm dead. I've got a lot more to lose than you have. Bare that in mind while you're playing your games, Inga."

Inga gasped, twisted herself about and pulled him down on top of her, wrapping her long legs around him with urgency.

"Maybe Happy Families isn't for you after all, Christopher."


	17. The Wanderer Returns

This turned into one of those boring little filler chapters but I've started on Chapter 18 and I'm slowly writing my way towards something a bit meatier.

**Chapter 17**

"We've tracked Inga down," said Spikings gruffly.

He was annoyed that SI-10 had had to waste time searching for this potentially valuable witness slash suspect when it should have been done days before by plod.

"One step ahead o' ya, Chief… I've interviewed her!" He grinned into the receiver. "Course when I say _interviewed_, it was actually pretty informal ya know?"

It was sometimes difficult to tell with him but Spikings got the impression that alcohol had been involved.

"Conducted in a pub, was it Dempsey?"

"Er er. It was real civilized. The hotel bar. They got them little paper drinks coasters and everythin'."

Spikings had the feeling this could take a while.

"So what was the outcome of your little tête à tête?" He loosened his necktie and popped open the top button of his shirt. "Wait, let me rephrase that, what was the result of the interview? Your answer should pertain to the investigation, Dempsey."

He was no fool. He'd seen photographs of this model and knew exactly the kind of slurry that would have been running though the Yank's mind.

"Chief, I gotta tell ya, she's somethin' else. Says she's a model but lemme tell ya, she's just a hand job away from hookin'! High class hookin' maybe but I guarantee she knows how to turn a trick."

"And did you get a name?"

"You mean you didn't get nuthin' there?" he marvelled. "Couldn't get her to budge on that one myself either. Could be Doris Finkelstein for all I know."

"An address. Kensington."

"Nice neighbourhood," Dempsey commented with a low whistle. "So who owns it?"

"A gentleman by the name of Barney Welbeck."

"Known?"

For the last few minutes, Spikings had been sitting with a cigarette between his lips, rummaging through his desk drawers for a lighter.

"Oh yes. What you might call a proper wrong'un." He spied an ancient book of matches half hidden beneath a hole punch and made a gleeful grab at it. "Barney's worked for several high-rolling villains over the years but I don't think he'd have the readies or the nous to be investing in property in Kensington."

"So he's the store front and Inga's the goods. We need to know who does the buyin' and selling in this venture."

"It's being looked into as we speak."

Spikings tossed the first match into the ashtray and attempted to strike another. "Give me what you've got on Inga. Make it clean, make it pertinent."

The third match sparked and died.

"Oh she was _all _pertinent, boss, believe me."

He went on to relay the relevant facts she had given him about herself and also expressed his doubts that much of it was true.

"It was kinda surreal, ya know, like we were playin' each other. I dunno, maybe it was just me but it was almost like she had the drop on me from the start."

The fourth match bent and snapped in his fingers and he mumbled a curse. The nicotine craving was starting to kick in.

"You and Makepeace playing your parts are you?" he enquired, the implication being that the fault might lie with them somehow.

"Hey, we're so married we've already had a neighbour come down complainin' 'cause we're rowin' too loud."

Spikings wanted to believe that was an attempt to wind him up only he couldn't help but worry there was a grain of truth somewhere in what he said.

"Just make sure she doesn't serve you with divorce papers until after the case has been closed, Dempsey. Alright?"

With infinite care and attention, Spikings gently struck a fifth match. It flared brightly for a fraction of a second before disappearing for some unaccountable reason, leaving only a mocking curl of sulphurous smoke.

"Bloody hell," he rumbled.

"Somethin' up, Chief?"

"No more than usual when you two are out in the field together."

He threw the few remaining matches into the wastepaper basket under the desk with disgust. "What arrangements have you made with Inga? I take it she took you up on whatever offer it was you made her?"

"Hey, c'mmon, does a bear shit in the woods? Takin' her to dinner tonight to go over a few things."

Hearing the salacious inflection, Spikings grimaced. "To a restaurant, far, far away, Dempsey. We wouldn't want your wife getting wind of something like that."

"Boss, whadya take me for? I ain't never been married but I know you don't mess around in your own back yard. What would the neighbours say?"

"My point exactly."

Dempsey could see things were getting ever more complicated. Working a cover with his partner posing as his expectant wife was one thing but adding a second cover to that, one which could potentially inspire a lynch mob if he was found out, that was a risk. And then there was the one night stand, his partner's problem which was vicariously his problem too now.

"I got it all under control. It's cool."

"If only I could believe that, Dempsey."

Spikings hung up the telephone, simultaneously bellowing Chas' name as he did so.

Sergeant Jarvis stuck his head around the door. "Sir?"

Spikings held his cigarette out for Chas to inspect.

"My only vice, Chas, on a bad day my only pleasure. How is it that Dempsey manages to jinx even that for me?"

He stuck the cigarette back in his mouth and dragged an unpleasantly obese report folder on a gangland murder towards him.

"Get me a light, Chas old son, that's all I ask."

Chas reflected on the obscurities of nicotine addiction as he went to borrow a lighter from Frank.

* * *

It had been a good three hours since Dempsey's departure, three hours in which Makepeace had endured (although maybe that was being unkind)… listened to Gloria's tales of everything from playground games of her childhood to the technicalities of maintaining a beehive hairdo. Although her stories were often quite entertaining, actual conversation proved difficult when Gloria rarely paused for breath.

Dempsey had obviously decided to go off and investigate on his own and that made her blood boil. She was tied to the studios, imprisoned behind the façade of this ridiculous fake pregnancy. There was no possibility of talking to witnesses and suspects under any other guise than a pregnant woman and she felt strangely trapped; limited by her bogus fecundity.

When she talked to men as Sergeant Makepeace, they often responded to her in a certain way and she exploited their natural instincts. She flirted and teased almost guilelessly and it was only now she realised how unknowingly and unwittingly she relied on her femininity in so many situations. Was she wrong to work that way? But then she reasoned, she was good at her job and if it got her results, feminism be damned. As a mother-to-be, she had lost that ability and it was an unnerving relelation.

She had wanted to go up to the top floor to talk to Billy but had given Gloria the excuse that Christopher would probably have returned from his meeting at the gallery by now. When Gloria saw her out of the door, she had no choice but to go back downstairs to Studio 2 where she had been staring with blind eyes at the uninspiring view from the back door for the last fifteen minutes.

She hated the way she felt right now, hated that it wasn't her partner she was angry with for leaving her stranded like this, it was _him_. Why did she feel so lost without him. Weak and vulnerable wasn't her. She shouldn't _need_ him like this.

She turned sharply at the sound of the door opening behind her.

"Hey, Princess! You been okay without me?"

Like he knew.

He wore a big please-with-himself grin as he sidled towards her.

Makepeace bridled.

"Why wouldn't I be? I've spent almost three hours with Gloria in what's known as 'the grip of conversation'. If you look closely you'll see the bruising to my ears."

"Yeah?"

Standing beside her now, his hand came out to gently sweep back her hair from the side of her face.

"So, Dempsey." She brushed his hand away as though it was nothing more than a cobweb. "I take it your three hours of leg work has yielded at least something useful?" Then she sniffed suspiciously. "You smell of pub!"

"That's the sweet smell of success, Babe."

He levered himself up onto the bench, his legs dangling.

Makepeace didn't reply, just waited for him to get to the point.

"Got myself a hot date tonight."

"Really," she commented flatly. Her stomach had shifted unpleasantly at his words but she forced herself to appear unmoved.

"Met her at the hotel."

Dempsey met those piercing blue eyes and decided it wasn't such a good idea to piss her off. Leaving her marooned here for three hours was bad enough but making her believe he'd swerved the job too was a definite no-no.

"I hooked up with Inga," he explained.

"Inga? My God, she's keen!"

"Yup. There she was, waitin' for me in the hotel lobby. Lucky I got to set the scene with reception before she showed up, ha?"

"And?" Makepeace demanded.

He grinned. "I have to say, we got on like the proverbial house." He looked away for a moment as he pretended to think about that. "Or maybe it was more like a barn," he mused. "Someplace out in the mid-west, in a field o' parched wheat that ain't seen rain for months. Dry as tinder," he continued. "Strike a match and…poof!"

"Dempsey," she said coolly, "whilst your ability to connect with this witness is commendable, I'm rather hoping there was something worthwhile came from it and that it might even in some small way relate to the case."

That lack of faith sounded kind of familiar.

"You and the boss in cahoots, Makepeace?"

"Come off it. She's a very attractive woman who appears to have an aversion to clothing and you're… well… you're you."

Whilst Spikings could think what he liked, what Makepeace believed mattered to Dempsey. In fact, it astounded him exactly how much these days.

"What I'm sayin' is, I got her eatin' outta my hand."

Had he? Or was that what she wanted him to think? There was something… something he couldn't quite put his finger on and as he always said when something didn't smell quite right, 'the nose, knows'.

He went on to tell her the snippets he had gleaned from their two hours or so at the hotel bar, adding as almost a throwaway remark that of course there was a slim chance what she had given him wasn't completely kosher.

"And what does that mean exactly?" Makepeace asked briskly. It hadn't gone unnoticed that it all seemed to have fallen into his lap rather suddenly. But then again, according to Gloria, Inga practically had a medical condition.

"Maybe nothin', maybe somethin'" he shrugged.

"Gloria most definitely isn't a fan. Has Inga pegged as a nymphomaniac apparently."

Dempsey smiled. "Ya know somethin'? I could believe that. Makes me kinda sad though," he sighed.

"And why might that be?" She couldn't curb the smirk that formed at the anticipation of his answer.

He made mischievous eye contact with her as he replied, "Maybe I ain't as irresistible as I'd thought I was."

"Don't think you've got much to worry about."

Harry maintained the eye contact with difficulty, feeling a sudden twitch of excitement which she couldn't quite account for. Why was she bolstering his already over-inflated ego when she was supposed to be mad at him for deserting her for three hours and for deliberately leaving her in that uncomfortable situation with Paul Masters.

"Anyways, how's my favourite girl been doin' while I've been gone?

For a moment, Harry thought he might follow that up with some clever, baby-related comment and she felt her tension release when none was forthcoming.

"Gloria aside, I've been bored rigid. I need to do something. I can't stand this inactivity."

"You got anything in mind?" he asked.

"Billy Higgins. He's really the only one we haven't spoken to."

"And as they say, still waters run deep, right?"

"Right. He might not say much but he's got eyes and ears. He may have noticed something, overheard a conversation."

"Could be."

He found he was studying her features, comparing them to those of Inga.

"From what I gathered from Gloria, your new friend made a pass at young Billy, albeit a wind-up, I'm sure."

They were both incredibly sexy but in different ways. How would Makepeace look with her lips that deep, dark shade of red, he wondered.

"Is that so?" he replied distantly.

Makepeace glared at him and said with frustration, "Dempsey, are you even listening to me? Lunchtime drinking obviously doesn't agree with you."

…and a straw between 'em…

He stood.

"Sure. Let's go shoot the breeze with wild Billy Higgins," he grinned.

* * *

**It's going to perk up a bit in the next chapter, I promise.**

**Would be great if someone who hasn't done so already would review Chapter 4 The Get Go. For some reason, it didn't get as many reviews as all the others and it's bothering me... very sad of me I know but feedback is addictive -) Got quite a bit of reviewing to catch up on myself this weekend.**


	18. White Papers

Thanks for all the lovely reviews and special thanks to MyrtleLGoggins and xLaramiex for reviewing the neglected Chapter 4 ;-)

This next chapter is an Inga-free zone but she'll be making a return very, very soon.

* * *

**Chapter 18**

"Gloria was singing your praises so we wanted to come and have a look for ourselves," Makepeace smiled. "If that's alright with you?"

"Yeah." Billy had the look of a cornered animal. "Yeah, course."

He stripped the visor from his face and carefully laid the soldering iron down on the heat-proof mat on the bench.

"This is it then, ha?" Dempsey was all smiles as he went across to stand beside the glimmering sail boat. "She really is a beauty."

"Thanks."

As that seemed to be the full extent of his reply, Dempsey tried again with, "Absolutely stunning. How long have you been working on her?"

Billy shrugged coyly. "Three months give or take. Fitted a few other bits in between to keep the wolf from the door, you know."

"That you've managed to sell?" Makepeace asked, wondering exactly how he managed to _keep the wolf from the door_ unless he had buyers lined up.

"Know this bloke down the market. I do coats of arms to order. Set design so doesn't take long to add a family name plaque."

"And your market guy takes his cut?" Makepeace surmised.

Billy reached under the bench and pulled an eighteen inch shield from off the shelf. "These things, look."

"Now that's very, very nice," said Dempsey, holding it up so both he and Harry could view it. "If we only had the stately home to hang it in, huh honey." He half turned to her, the smile conveying so much more than the imparting of a banally amusing comment.

"Not sure I can envisage you in some old, baronial hall, darling," she replied, looking at him directly, her eyes twinkling.

"I'm quite sure you can…shining the armour," he added quietly.

Billy knew by the intimate look that passed between them that this was some sort of 'in joke' and assuming there was a sexual connotation attached to it, turned away to fiddle with a roll of steel solder.

"It's good to have a little sideline like this," said Harry. "Do you do anything else?"

Billy looked at her, seemingly surprised by the question. "Like what? What do you mean?" he asked suspiciously.

"Do you make anything else while you're working on something like this?" asked Harry, indicating the sail boat. "To keep the wolf from the door."

"Oh, I get you. Yeah, I do cups, you know, like goblets. And chalices. They sell really well."

Running a forefinger along the stern of the sail boat, Dempsey looked up. "Food for the masses," he said with a smile.

The remark seemed to bring about a defensive reaction.

"I wouldn't say that…not at all. Every piece is unique. I don't mass produce anything. I use the same design but every single bit is hand crafted. They're unique pieces," he repeated.

Dempsey had clearly struck a nerve and both the detectives were at once alert to the fact.

"I wasn't suggesting your work is mass produced," Dempsey placated and Harry jumped in quickly with, "I think Christopher just meant that it's the sort of thing that appeals to a broad spectrum of people and it's easily accessible. It's good you have the opportunity to get your work out there, Billy, to get it seen."

"Hey, exactly," Dempsey pulled back smoothly. "It isn't easy getting noticed when your only possible outlet is uptown galleries where your face mightn't fit. Have you tried touting a quarter tonne of clay about a marketplace lately?"

Billy nodded in agreement. "Yeah. Get your point I suppose but I'd rather go hungry than churn out manufactured crap. You know what I mean?"

He rubbed roughly up and down his forearm with his knuckles and lowered his eyes. An expression of nervousness and no doubt a habit, Dempsey observed. He was a shy kid.

Dempsey raised his eyebrows. "Integrity…and without wishing to sound patronising, quite a conscience in one so young."

Before she had even realised she was doing it, Harry cast an incredulous look his way. 'In _one_ so young'. This accent and the way of speaking that went with it grated on her she realised. His natural New York accent was far more attractive to her ears; warm and easy, in fact, she enjoyed just listening to him sometimes.

"Cheers," Billy muttered. "Winds me up, that's all, when people forget you still need a soul to make a living when you're an artist…" then his cheeks reddened and he stammered, "I didn't mean…I mean…obviously you take your work really seriously and everything."

"I take making a living seriously too," Dempsey said. "If it's a choice between churning out production line junk or the bread line, my family would have to come first I'm afraid."

Again, Harry couldn't resist a glance in his direction.

He smiled at her warmly, his eyes crinkling in that way that made her forget what she was supposed to be doing.

But Billy appeared crestfallen. "But if it came to it, wouldn't you rather be stacking tins on supermarket shelves than prostituting your talent?" he asked with impassioned vigor.

"That would be an option of course but circumstances dictate sometimes. The welfare of loved ones would always win out," Dempsey said seriously.

Billy looked to Odette in the hopes that she would set her husband straight. "Would you be happy with that?" he asked boldly. "Would you want him to sell his soul to the corporation for you?"

"I think," said Harry carefully," that priorities change as your life progresses."

"Cop-out!" he jeered, his face now quite flushed. "Your beliefs...your values don't' have to change. If a religious man is forbidden a place to worship, does he stop believing in God? Does he automatically lose his faith?"

"Hardly the same thing," Harry threw back with a bantering tone in an effort to counterbalance the serious tack Billy had taken.

"But it is!" he protested. "It's something inside you. Art moves people, inspires them, can reduce them to tears of sadness and lift them to unbelievable heights of elation. If an artist can do that then he's got a duty to stay true to himself."

"You're an idealist, Billy," said Dempsey gently. "Not a bad thing but not always practical either. Some things are more important than ideals and I would never have believed that until now but…" his hand reached out to rub momentarily over 'the bump', "…life can take on a whole new perspective sometimes."

Harry held her breath, her eyes sliding downwards to see his hand move away again. She had never felt so uncomfortable with anything in her life and she was having a hard time _acting_ otherwise.

She laughed, hearing her own nervousness in the sound. "But you've been fortunate enough to be able to combine the two, Christopher. Not everyone can do that," she pointed out in an attempt to pour oil on troubled waters.

Deliberately, he put his arm about her waist and there was a look of steely defiance in his eyes when he looked to her. "That's true, darling."

Billy rubbed his knuckles down his forearm again, embarrassed by the display of affection maybe. "So when d'you think you'll have it finished?" Billy asked. "The piece you're working on."

"The plan is to be able to call it completed before our son is born. Should only take a few more days so unless Odette's planning on delivering her little gift this week, which I might add is quite possible, then I'm still on target."

Harry just wanted him to stop. His sugary, warm words made her want to wretch. Their sweetness pooled like bile in her chest until she could barely breathe for the thick, treacley pain. She couldn't do this; she had thought she could, thought she could handle it but she hadn't allowed for the part her partner would play or the way her mind would twist his clever input and use it as an instrument of torture.

Suddenly, she felt a surreal coldness wash through her, a darkness ebbing at her peripheral vision and their voices seemed to echo in conversation.

Her head lolled backwards and when she opened her eyes, Harry was sitting on a chair, Billy looking down upon her anxiously and Dempsey on his haunches to her side, rubbing her right hand vigorously between his own.

"I'll get a glass of water, shall I?" she heard Billy say.

"Yeah. Do it," Dempsey replied harshly and then with tenderness asked, "How're you feeling, Odette?"

For a split second the name wouldn't register but when he repeated it, staring hard into her eyes, she nodded her understanding.

"I'm fine. Really, I'm fine."

Her fingers curled involuntarily around one of his hands as she struggled to sit straighter. "I was just too hot I think. It _is_ very hot, isn't it?"

Billy returned with the glass of water and she drank it down greedily.

"Better?" Dempsey asked.

Makepeace became aware of how tightly she was still holding onto him and quickly relinquished her grip.

"Yes. Much," she smiled.

Dempsey frowned and asked, "did you eat anything today besides that damned grapefruit you had at breakfast?"

"Some biscuits. Honestly, it's just the heat. I'll be okay in a minute."

"You need to eat properly, Odette, honey." His fingers stroked lightly over her cheek. "Don't make me worry about you."

He smiled but she saw no smile in his eyes. _What the hell is goin' on here? _That was what she read.

"'fraid all I can offer is more biscuits," said Billy, anxiously. "But you're welcome to them if it would help."

He picked up an oblong box of clotted cream chocolate chip cookies.

"No, really, I've had enough tea and biscuits today to last me a lifetime."

She smiled her gratitude and explained, "I've spent the morning with Gloria."

Billy grinned. "Auntie G's a lightweight," he said affectionately, plucking a biscuit from the box and taking a bite.

"I think I'll just have to take your word for that," Makepeace laughed just a little shakily.

"So you're sure you're alright now?" Dempsey asked. "I'm thinking maybe we should take you to see Doctor Spikings, get you checked over."

Makepeace swung her head towards him, clutching the sides of the seat as she fixed him with a glare. "Really, darling, I told you, I'm fine. It's just carrying all this extra weight around, I got over-hot," she told him sweetly.

_How dare he threaten her like that! If he wanted her off the case then he would have a fight on his hands. Let him try wearing the bloody fat suit for ten hours at a stretch, lug it up and down stairs and drink gallon upon gallon of hot tea. It wasn't as if she was ill, it had been a dizzy spell, that was all._

"Well okay but I think I need to keep my eye on you, Princess."

Dempsey finally hauled himself to his feet with a sigh. "Wish I'd kept a closer eye on Charlie. Maybe I would have realised something was wrong."

"You know him well then, do you?" Billy asked.

"Not what you'd call close, more like drinking buddies. We gave our money away to the same croupiers for a time."

When the subject of Charlie's gambling habit had been raised yesterday, Billy had already gone back up to his studio so Dempsey was curious to get his take on it.

The young man took another biscuit, offering one to Dempsey.

"Right idiot with his money, him. S'ppose it's because he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. They're like that, these toffs, don't understand the value of anything 'cause they've not had to work for it." He lowered his eyes. "Sorry, I know he's a mate and everything."

Makepeace couldn't even bring herself to consider what was going through Dempsey's mind as she pointed out that Charlie's work was really on a par with his own.

"Wouldn't say that," replied Billy with a spark of condescension. "You know that 'White Papers' piece he did last year?"

Whilst Dempsey feigned a dull recollection, the photograph they had been shown during the briefing at SI-10 immediately sprang to Makepeace's mind.

"The briefcase," she said. "Yes, of course, why?"

"Well he's done at least three of them to my knowledge. Can't imagine the buyer of the original would be too pleased to know there are copies knocking about, copies by the artist himself. I mean, that's the point, isn't it, people are paying for something that's unique." He reached for another biscuit. "Makes him a con man in my book."

Feeling that familiar kick of excitement, Dempsey realised they could be onto something.

"You actually saw these copies?" he asked.

"Yeah. Side by side. Two of 'em. A few weeks ago. That's not right, is it? The owner of the original work would've bought in good faith."

"And once it's just one of a series," Makepeace continued, "it completely loses its value of course."

"If it ever comes to light," Dempsey added.

"Sooner or later it would." Billy picked up a white cloth and began buffing the stern of the sail boat, his focus now back on his work. "You know how collectors like to brag."

Dempsey was remembering the four figure price tag that had been attached to Sach's pieces. He'd be bragging too if his salary stretched to that kind of frivolous expenditure.

"There're some serious financial implications there, that's for certain."

Billy looked up sharply, his features creased by frustration. "Wasn't talking monetary value. The whole point is that the buyers have all been lumbered with copies. Even the original is just one of three now; or four, or five or six or however many Charlie made on his bloody production line!" His polishing became more vigorous. "Can't believe he was willing to throw away his integrity and his reputation for the sake of a few measly grand."

* * *

"A few measly grand," Dempsey repeated a couple of minutes later as he and Makepeace wended their way back downstairs. "Don't think the schmucks who handed over their hard earned dough for what they thought was an original would see it that way."

"And I wouldn't have thought the words 'measly' and 'grand' quite belong in the same sentence where young Billy is concerned."

"This is true," Dempsey agreed, letting the door of the studio swing behind him for Makepeace to catch. "Kid can't afford those kinda morals."

"The real world will catch up with him soon enough, I'm sure."

"So lemme get this straight in my mind; Sachs sells this White Papers Briefcase deal for a couple o' thou and figures he can make himself the same again and again with copies. Could be someone got pissed at bein' made a fool out of an' put the squeeze on our man bad enough to make him disappear."

"Possible. In fact, highly likely. I would imagine he was selling the copies to foreign buyers to lessen the likelihood of discovery."

Dempsey rubbed a hand over his chin. "Yeah. We need to know what the boys came up with on the shipping front," he said, tucking a forearm under his chest as he thought it through. "We gotta follow up on what company he used and the destinations."

"Mmmm.," Harry agreed distractedly. "You know what's funny?"

"Make 'em laugh, Makepeace."

"Well, Sachs wasn't a big cheese in the art world was he?" Made a bit of a dent maybe but not what you'd call a name."

"What's your point?"

"My point is this: would Charlie Sachs really have been able to sell 'White Papers' several times over? Would he really have attracted that may buyers, all clamouring for his work, overseas or not?"

He raised his eyes to hers as he followed her logic. "I hear ya but maybe he was lettin' 'em go cut rate to get the sales."

"Could be but would he risk his standing with serious buyers for what might have been just a few hundred pounds?"

"If I can track down a couple o' these buyers then we got a chance of findin' that out."

Makepeace looked to the ground, a tight smile on her lips. She had picked up on his intentions to go it alone and it didn't please her.

"_You_, Dempsey?"

"You got it, sweetheart," he ground. "Me!"

"Ah, here we go," she nodded.

"What, you thought I would just let it go by? You blacked out, Makepeace. You already made it clear whatever's goin' on with you ain't my business but I sure as hell ain't gonna have you hangin' around my neck like a dead weight."

"A dead weight?" she said calmly.

"A liability."

"Have you seen this, Dempsey?" She prodded a finger at the bump. "Do you know what this _dead weight _feels like strapped to your body in this heat? I'm melting and exhausted. I'm not looking for sympathy but some respect and understanding wouldn't go amiss."

"Forget it! You ain't up to the job. No allowances, baby."

The pointing finger was now trained on Dempsey.

"You could do this could you, Dempsey?" she asked in a hectoring tone.

"You know…"

"No, you couldn't," she cut him off, "because you're a man and you're simply not _up to the job. _And you can't bare that, can you, knowing that no matter how much of a failure you think I am, you could never, ever better me?"

"Bullshit! The cover isn't relevant here, it's what's goin' on in that mashed up brain of yours that concerns me."

"Don't distress yourself on my account," she laughed sarcastically.

Dempsey rubbed at the back of his neck with a clumsy hand and instead of him coming back with the expected gritty, heated response, there followed an uncomfortable silence before he said dully, "Can't help myself, Harry."

Harry tried to read the unfathomable combination of emotions in his body language as he strode past her to the door but could only come to the conclusion that he had reached his limits of tolerence.


	19. Gingerbread Man

**This chapter maybe gets a bit too dark, deep and overly pretentious... but some of you like it that way ;-)**

* * *

**Chapter 19**

Dempsey didn't get very far.

Out in the small reception vestibule he stood with his hand to the back of his head, contemplating his options.

He could walk out right now and try his luck at getting Christopher Montgomery to spill his guts. They still didn't know quite where the skin pics of Inga fitted in nor what the score was between the two of them. Were they still in contact or did their association end along Paul Masters' relationship with her? But maybe that would be opening a whole new can of worms best saved 'til after his date with the lady in question.

He could waste a couple of hours trying to get a name for the freight company Sachs had used himself or he could call the factory and demand they pull up some answers right now. How hard could it be? Even without paperwork to go on, hadn't the boys in blue heard of the spray fire technique? A few thousand phone calls and they'd be more or less guaranteed a result! He smiled a half smile to himself. It was the only way they had of tracking the buyers as Sach's bank account had yielded only three cheques paid in of any significant value in the last six months and all three had proved to be legitimate, whiter than white patrons of the arts. However, large, untraceable amounts of cash had been swelling his bank balance since June which added up to a total of over twelve thousand pounds. Legitimate of not? It was impossible to tell although who paid in wads of bank notes these days?

They had next to nothing to work with and Spikings had given them forty-eight hours as of yesterday!

This was stupid.

Dempsey looked back down the hallway, in two minds whether to go back in there and have it out with her.

Supposing she was sick? She'd said it was personal, this _problem_ she had; what if it was a health issue? The idea harried at the edges of his mind. Unlikely, he told himself although he couldn't shake the notion completely. It wasn't like Harry to get flaky on him – she was one tough cookie but it was obvious from where he was standing that something was eating her up inside.

"Are you going to lunch, Paul?"

Dempsey swung round to see Jenna in the doorway behind him.

"Oh, sorry!" she said in surprise, "thought you were Paul."

"I think you'll find he's the better looking one out of the two of us," Dempsey joked.

Jenna laughed. "I must need glasses."

She came in and began quickly sifting through the small pile of post that had been left on the desk by the postman earlier in the day. "You fooled me for a minute. You look really similar from a certain angle."

She picked up an envelope and headed back out. "See you."

"Yeah, see you."

Did they? He hadn't noticed. Same height, same build, same hair… He shrugged. Maybe.

* * *

Having made the decision to find a phone box, he rang the SI-10 number and spoke to Chas Jarvis, asking him to pull any and all information on deliveries in and out of Weathervane Studios.

"I can tell you now, said Chas, "it isn't exactly comprehensive. Had a bit of a read through myself yesterday when it turned into a murder inquiry."

"Why does this not surprise me?" Dempsey said coolly. "What a way to run a railroad, ha?"

"I'm guessing the boys in blue weren't taking the posh boy's disappearance too seriously when they opened the case."

"Ain't that the truth?!"

He found a packet of chewing gum in his jeans pocket and unwrapped a stick to pop into his mouth. "Anything yet on this Inga broad other than an address?"

"Nope. Looks like you'll be wining and dining in the dark tonight, Dempsey but I daresay that's just the way you like it."

"For sure. I do some of my best detective work in the dark," he grinned, peering through the grimy glass of the telephone box at the sandwich shop opposite. "Blind-fold sometimes… look, I'll call in again around 5:30pm, okay? Should be back at the hotel by then. Get me somethin' I can work with, huh, Chas? This whole thing is drivin' me nuts."

"Do my best. The married life and a kiddie on the way not suiting you then?" he joked.

"When the wife is Makepeace and the kid is a fat guy's straight jacket? C'mmon, gimme a break!"

When he exited the phone box, he headed straight into the sandwich shop and bought lunch for himself. No sooner was he back outside on the street than he relented and returned to purchase a smoked salmon and cream cheese on wholemeal for Makepeace. They might not be seeing eye to eye but her getting even grouchier over an empty stomach was hardly going to do him any favours.

He turned that phrase over in his head – _an empty stomach_.

She wouldn't be getting broody now would she? Could that account for the crabby attitude? Did Makepeace have a biological clock that was ticking? Yeah, that was pretty personal, no way would she want to talk about something like that with him. Could he be right and her body was conflicting with her career? Okay, he could play sensitive although he couldn't for the life of him think what that might involve. It frustrated the hell out of him that she wouldn't let him in. Whatever she had going on, he wanted her to trust him with it, confide in him. Sure they were hard on each other most of the time but they both knew it was just a veneer. When it came down to it, after being partnered for four years, they were close and he liked to think that they could speak freely and on a serious level about anything. He'd never had that kind of a relationship with a woman; never been close enough to a contemporary***** without it turning into a whole other ballgame.

He liked what they had – liked it a lot in fact, only he found himself wanting more. Sometimes he was almost certain it was what Harry wanted too. There was a chemistry between them that bubbled and fizzed and when the sparks flew the excitement it created was obvious. One day, it could easily spill over and then where would they be?

Dempsey smiled to himself as a mental picture sprang to life. That was one clean-up operation he'd be happy to handle.

But he cared about her too, really cared and there weren't too many people in this world he could apply that sentiment to. He knew if circumstances demanded he would be prepared to lie for her, kill for her and yes, even die for her and in their line of work, there was a distinct possibility that all three vows could be called upon at one time or another.

He walked slowly along the road carrying his purchases in a brown paper carrier bag.

Harry was hurting and in pain and he didn't know what he could do about that. What he did know was that they were in danger of jeopardising the case between them because now Dempsey himself had taken his eye off the ball.

He got back to the studios ten minutes later and went around the back of the building to the rear entrance doors. As he passed by the first window, he sought out Makepeace and found her, head bent over what he took to be a stack of paperwork.

Reaching down inside the carrier, he opened up one of the white bags and took out the contents.

"Hey, beautiful!" he called out.

Makepeace lifted her head and turned in surprise. Although she couldn't see Dempsey behind the door, she could see what was in his hand, peeking around the door.

"Anyone around here hungry? You wanna piece o' me, ha?" he said in a thick, New York accent.

Her surprise melted into a half reluctant smile at the sight of a large iced gingerbread man looking back at her.

"As long as you think you're funny, Dempsey, that's really all that matters, isn't it?"

He entered tentatively, giving himself time to gauge her reaction.

"So. You want somethin' to eat?"

He dropped the carrier bag onto the bench in front of her.

Harry leant forward, pulling it towards her between thumb and forefinger and peering inside.

"I don't know, do I?"

"Smoked salmon, cream cheese and watercress."

"Wholemeal bread?"

"Is there any other kind?"

"Yes, the bleached, tasteless stuff you insist on spreading with such delights as peanut butter and jam."

"Jelly, Makepeace. You really think I'd go puttin' _jam_ on my sandwich?" he asked humorously.

Harry was delving into the bag. "You're an American – I wouldn't put anything past your culinary deviances."

Dempsey chuckled as he watched her open up a bag.

"And what's this?" she asked.

"That's mine. It's a B.L.T. Ya know, bacon, lettuce and tomato?"

"It looks relatively healthy!" she exclaimed.

"You wanna go halves?"

She hesitated but then took the triangular half out and passed the bag to him.

"Thank you," she said and bit into it hungrily.

"No problem."

They ate in silence for a minute until Harry reached for the gingerbread man, raising it up to examine it briefly.

"I haven't had one of these since I was ten years old," she said. "My mother would sometimes come back from a trip into the local town on a Saturday afternoon with one for me." She smiled. "Just like this, with the buttons down his chest."

"Yeah?"

She returned to her sandwich and they lapsed into silence again.

"Kinda wanted to apologise… for earlier, ya know," said Dempsey, quietly.

"There's nothing you have to apologise for." She sighed. "I, on the other hand…"

"Don't sweat it. Look, I ain't gonna pry no more but whenever you wanna talk… if ever you do… well, you know I'm around to listen."

"I know," she said softly, eyes lowered.

Dempsey took the other sandwich from the bag along with two bags of crisps.

"Salted, right?"

She looked at them dubiously.

"C'mmon, they're only chips, live a little."

"But they're not 'only chips'. They're crisps and they're scabs of the devil."

"They're what?" Dempsey burst out laughing. "Is that some kinda old English proverb?"

"No, a saying by my young English aerobics instructor."

"She give a class on the black arts too?" He had tears of laughter in his eyes now and Harry suddenly felt a lot better.

"Well if that's what it takes to get her gluteus maximus, I'm buying myself a broomstick tomorrow."

"And what does it take to get yours?"

Seeing the flash of misgiving in Dempsey's eyes brought about by his own crassness, she snatched the bag of crisps off him that he'd just opened. "Mine aren't up for grabs, Dempsey," she smirked.

He took his share of the smoked salmon sandwich and pushed the bag towards her. "Thanks for the mental picture anyway." He took a bite. "Is that what's known as givin' a dog a bone?"

He had meant nothing more inflammatory than regret that the vision of her posterior was all that was allowed him but Harry's mind had gone off at the deep end and attached a somewhat meatier interpretation to 'the bone'.

Dempsey read this in her indignant glare and raised his eyebrows. Harry opened her mouth and abruptly shut it again as she saw he had already cottoned on.

They both sniggered, looking away from each other yet bonded together.

"You goin' over Sachs' paperwork again?" he asked, nodding now towards the pile she had pushed to one side.

"I had to find something to do – didn't know how long you'd be, did I?"

"Yeah," he agreed. "Anythin'?"

"I doubt there's anything to be had but I couldn't sit here any longer feeling like a useless great lump."

"Hey, c'mmon. Underneath that lumpy exterior there's a goddess waitin' to burst out."

Harry rolled her eyes. "When we wrap this up, Dempsey, just watch me."

"I would like that very much, Sergeant," he replied with a kind of cool primness that made her laugh.

It was a good sound. She had a world-weary air about her lately that he wasn't used to seeing.

Dempsey grinned back, tossing a palmful of broken crisps into his mouth. "And whilst we're on the subject, maybe you oughta try on that robe for size this afternoon. I need to get my hands dirty."

"I suppose we've had enough time settling in," she agreed. "We should at least be seen to be doing some actual work."

They finished lunch, managing to get through it in relative harmony. Although Dempsey was frustrated to the point of anger that she was refusing to share her burden, he made a mammoth effort to be nice. He shouldn't have to treat her with kid gloves but the fact that it seemed to be the only way right now was in itself causing him grave concern.

Makepeace was a strong woman. That was one of the things he loved about her.

Silently he watched as she undid the buttons down the front of her dress, her back turned to him.

_One of the things…_

She took her arms out of the sleeves and slipped on the apricot robe before shimmying out of the lower half of the dress.

… _he loved about her…_

He felt the pull of that wickedly torturous emotion as he continued to stare.

Seeing her this way; swollen, vulnerable, at odds with herself, it made him feel strange. From a professional standpoint he wanted to tell her to get her act together and concentrate on the job they were being paid to do. But Jim Dempsey, well, that was another story. He saw everything that he was lacking in his life; a woman he could cherish and protect and a future that included a family of his own, something stable, solid and real. He was almost forty years old and knew that he was missing out on what most men his age took for granted. But it was easier to play the field than commit when you chose to put the job first and most of the time he didn't let himself think about it anyway.

Just before she turned around, he made a move towards the sculpture.

"I'll keep at the paperwork whilst you're doing that," said Harry as he carefully peeled back the oilcloth.

"'kay. Think we need to decide on our next move too."

He was holding out an olive branch and Harry accepted this with a not ungrateful nod.

"I was thinking about that," she said. "Maybe a little chat with Sir Alan might be in order. He bailed Charlie out more than once and I think I'd quite like to know exactly what his creditors were into him for."

"Sure, that's an angle. And depending on what comes out of dinner with the insatiable Inga tonight, could be time to parlez with Montgomery."

Makepeace had suggested that idea yesterday but he'd thought it too soon and as it happened he was probably right. Really it hinged on what Inga gave him on Montgomery. Although it was unlikely he was an innocent man as far as their acquaintanceship went, if there was no reason for him to be implicated in Charlie Sach's murder, then he would be spared the humiliation of the third degree and questioned informally and off the record.

Whichever tack they chose, Harry wanted to be the one to make him squirm.

"Montgomery's been holding out on us, hasn't he?" Makepeace guessed.

"It's a possibility. All depends on whether Inga is the bad girl we think she is."

The statue was all but complete and it was now Makepeace's image that looked back at her so serenely.

She looked away.

"Well I'm quite sure you'll have your answer by morning."

He chuckled at her very obvious dig. "Whadya talkin' about, Harry? She'll have filled out my questionnaire before you even hit REM tonight," he grinned, "in triplicate!"

"I don't doubt it." She threw over her shoulder as she went to collect the stack of correspondence. With it wadded in her hands, she sat on the dusty floor by the side of the open back doors, catching the cooler currents of air that travelled across the studio floor.

"Comfy?" he asked, amused.

"Not really," she replied lightly, taking up where she'd left off a third of the way down the pile.

Dempsey began his task of damping the sculpture with the water spray, going over every inch of the clay flesh meticulously. He found he enjoyed it, it was therapeutic and it fascinated him how the clay had taken on Makepeace's appearance over the last two days. It wasn't only the facial features. He knew the body itself hadn't been altered but he now saw it as a whole and complete representation of Harry.

He glanced over at her sitting there on the floor, deep in concentration.

Montgomery had done a good job.

After a moment of hesitation he reached a hand out and touched her shoulder with a fingertip. It wasn't warm of course but it wasn't cold either. The finger travelled up to her collarbone and across to the other shoulder where he softly curved his hand. It felt smooth and just the right shape, exactly how he remembered her from last night when he had given her the neck rub.

So damned good.

He slid his hand down to her upper arm. Was this the way she would feel too? Down to her forearm, her wrist and the back of her hand. But the hand was wrong; he couldn't turn it over, couldn't feel the little bones nor the tendons and the skin didn't move under the pressure of his fingertips.

He sat back on the plastic stacking chair and felt his fingers throb.

He risked a look in Harry's direction on the far side of the studio and saw that she was miles away, staring into space.

He looked back at the sculpture, his eyes resting now at her neck, so long and slender. Slowly, he raised the spray bottle and pulled on the trigger, firing the fine mist over her throat and watching it trickle down in rivulets.

His own throat constricted as water rolled over the left breast of the reclining figure and a droplet hung suspended from the nipple. He stared, breath held and when the droplet trembled and fell, it was replaced by another. Dempsey put the spray bottle down. Was this the way Harry would look? In his mind's eye he saw the real flesh suddenly in all its imagined hues and he lifted his hand to caress the droplet away with his thumb, his palm briefly cupping the underside of her breast. He was glad that those eyes, unseeing though they were, were looking away from him. He didn't relinquish the contact though, instead tracing his hand down over the ribcage and so to the big expanse of smooth, perfect clay that was the swollen belly. Scarcely even thinking, he brought his other hand up and moulded it to the surface of the other side.

Wow!

He suddenly could see what Montgomery had been aiming for; this was something sensual, the physical representation of concupiscence, the result of sexual desire and fulfilment.

He let his hands move slowly over the voluptuous rise, feeling a shivering tension course through his body.

Was this what Montgomery had intended? Had he known his work would elicit this sort of reaction? That it was based on Odette wasn't relevant, it was the embodiment of womanhood, the woman you needed it to be to understand… to feel.

Dempsey swallowed hard. What he felt was Harry.

He was tingling inside with this knowledge, burning brightly with a warm light.

It was so stupid.

She wasn't his and never would be. And why did the idea of her having a child growing inside her leave him with this… this yearning? Was this image the amalgamation of his desires?

He pulled away quickly, feeling stunned, trembling inside, sweating outside, visibly shocked by his discovery.

He darted a glance towards Harry again and saw she was still gazing into space only now the expression on her face was far from vacant. It was then that he realised the glass pane set into one of the open back doors was directly within her line of vision.

Their eyes met within the clear reflection, Harry's conveying amazement and Dempsey's, guilty embarrassment.

For the first time in many years he felt his face flush with colour.

Makepeace had just caught a glimpse of his soul.

* * *

***Vibeshite**

(Don't ask! The product of a very funny discussion the other day)


	20. Size Matters

Chapter 20

Deliberately wiping his fingers down the front of his jeans created the look of an afternoon's work but Dempsey was so wound up he would have been hard pushed not to have made the smeary mess anyway.

The ensuing quiet brought with it an agonised period of rambling thoughts that had nothing to do with the work and everything to do with Harry.

Jeezas, she probably thought he was some kind of a pervert or at the very least acting like he'd lost his mind. He felt he needed to say something, anything, but for once he was lost for words. He couldn't even bring himself to touch the sculpture again and when he could stand it no more, he sprang forward, going to the deep, stone sink on the pretext of refilling the spray gun with cold water.

"Got something."

He latched onto those words like a drowning man.

"What?" he demanded gruffly.

"Here, on the back of this delivery note."

Makepeace tapped at the sheet.

"Do you recognise the name Peter Cotes?"

He frowned, dredging up what he could recollect of the man who had immediately sprung to mind. "Sure. Fingers, pies, high rollin', low livin'. Am I right?"

"You are but that applies to quite a number of our professional acquaintances."

"Okay, errrm, lemme think."

Dempsey applied himself and quickly came up with the detail he was searching for. "Owns a nightclub in Chelsea popular with the nose candy kids."

"And?" Makepeace prompted.

"And that's all I know. We're back to the drugs angle again, right?"

"Possibly. He's got something to do with a corporate entertainment agency, specialist travel, something like that. I once saw him at a polo club _do_ down in Kent."

"His legit face."

"Mm. It was just a week after his club had been raided but the stock exchange yuppies weren't to know that."

"Would the stock exchange yuppies care?"

"True. Ring of vice girls operating out of the club too although as I recall, they couldn't get that to stick to him."

Dempsey had left the sink to see the piece of paper for himself. "And what are these numbers?" he asked, taking it from her.

Harry's eyes were drawn to his long, clay besmirched fingers. Most of it had been rubbed off onto his jeans but traces were still evident in the fine creases of skin.

The one question that had been in her mind as she watched had been '_What is he thinking?_' She would never forget that expression on his face as long as she lived. Who had he envisaged as he trailed those fingers over the clay – Odette or Harry? Maybe neither. Maybe he had just been taken up by the beauty of the female form and that was the reason for the wave of emotion she had witnessed surging through his body. But the way his hands had caressed the pregnant belly, it was almost like he was suffering with the enormity of feeling it evoked. She would swear she had seen a kind of pain mixed up there as though it had overwhelmed him for a moment. That wasn't merely the effect of 'art', no matter how good it was, it went deeper.

Harry couldn't keep her mind on track now. Had there been somebody in his past? Had there been a woman? A girl? Someone who had been 'the one', someone he had made 'forever plans' with? Or had there actually been a pregnancy somewhere in his murky past that had ended in miscarriage or abortion? Of course it was possible that there was a child out there; a teenager or an adult even? It was quite possible.

"Any thoughts on that?" Dempsey asked and Harry realised just how long she had been fixated on his hands for.

She looked up sharply. "Sorry, on…?"

"On the numbers."

No wisecrack from him. Nothing that might incite her to bring up what she had borne witness to she noticed.

It felt awkward.

"Well, they must be the dimensions of something. 'They're exes in between, aren't they - multiply by. Three two zero by four four zero by one zero zero," she read out, leaning over to place her index finger on the line of digits.

"Okay, I see that but what measurements are we talkin'? Feet, inches, God-damned cubits?"

He moved back. Harry was too close for comfort. He could smell the fragrance she wore at her throat, lifting up warm and familiar into his nostrils. It instantly triggered memories of last night when he had felt real, warm flesh beneath his fingertips.

"How does this help us?" he cried. "Could be the size of anythin'. What is it you use over here…millimetres?"

That was a first, Dempsey being concerned about his own personal space. He'd backed away from her as though something about her caused him offence. Was it this damned bump? Well he wasn't the only one it was bothering.

"It would work out about seventeen and a half inches long …"

And then she did something rather silly.

Maybe in a bid to provoke an explanation for what she had seen, she let her right hand fall to the rise of the pregnancy where she continued to rest it as she had seen pregnant women do a hundred times before.

"But we have to assume that Peter Cotes gave him those measurements, whatever they're for and bearing in mind that Charlie was a sculptor, it would make sense that it relates to something he was working on."

She saw his gaze drop to where her hand was now placed, absently stroking the bump, before he completely turned away, running his fingers through his hair anxiously.

"Not inches then, huh, cause we'd be lookin' at somethin'…what, like over thirty-six feet long... or tall. The studio just ain't big enough for that."

He was nervous. She was making Dempsey nervous!

"So four hundred and forty centimetres would be…" she calculated.

"Hey, don't ask me. Americans like to keep it simple. Why d'you have to have this metric crap when you already use imperial?" he griped.

Harry frowned as she worked the sum out in her head. "Four thousand four hundred millimetres divided by twenty five…four…forty…a hundred and sixty… plus sixteen is a hundred and seventy six divided by twelve…"

"Fourteen and a half feet, give or take," he finished. "Still sounds kinda big to me, you think?"

"Not impossible though and I daresay if he had done a piece that sort of size somebody would remember it."

"Okay, we can find that out easy enough. Somethin' like that, somebody woulda taken an interest I would guess."

"Of course, this is all just supposition. Those numbers aren't forced to be anything to do with his work."

"What else do we have to go on right now?" he answered dully. "We get pulled off the case tomorrow morning unless we come up with something solid."

Makepeace sighed. "There must be something here!" She flung her arm out indicating Weathervane Studios as a whole. "Either we aren't asking the right questions or someone knows more than they're letting on."

Dempsey nodded, a small smile lighting his face. "Yeah! And why might somebody here be holding out on us, huh?" he prompted.

"Because they're in whatever it is up to their necks too!"

"Exactly. Maybe it's time to let 'em know their buddy's turned up dead on a Cornwall beach, see if it gets any fish jumpin'."

Again, the Corn-waul pronunciation that she didn't correct.

Makepeace was still flicking through the paperwork. Not that she was expecting to find anything more but it meant she didn't have to keep eye contact with Dempsey for longer than was absolutely necessary.

He was covering it well but she knew him and he couldn't hide the embarrassment that still lingered on in his stilted body language.

"We could request a little meeting," Harry said, "tell them Sir Alan has been in touch to let us know Charlie was found murdered."

"Okay," he agreed. "I know how you like to play the psych major."

"You're better at it though," she allowed him. "Nothing gets past you, does it? Not a twitch, a crossing of the arms nor a licking of the lips.

She had told herself not to say that last part just a split second before it came out. It was almost cruel but she spared him her scrutiny as she slowly turned over another sheet to place face down.

She was poking him with a stick and she knew she shouldn't do it but what she had seen had so taken her aback that she simply couldn't help herself. She needed to know what had been in his mind for those few minutes because…because… what if he actually had feelings for her?

"Woulda thought Gloria would of stuck her beak around the door by now. Thought they all took a lunch break together."

So he wasn't to be drawn on the subject of body language.

"Perhaps she doesn't want to impose herself on us."

He gave her a 'you kiddin' me?' look in reply.

"Well what do you want to do then?" Makepeace asked tartly. "We're getting nowhere fast here in case you hadn't noticed."

Dempsey scowled. "I've noticed, okay?" he grated. "But that's here. Believe me, baby, I'm gonna get some answers out there tonight whatever it takes."

He jerked his thumb back and grinned rakishly. Makepeace felt her lips purse at the meaning behind his promises. It was his way of digging himself out of the hole he clearly felt he had created; it made him feel better about the fact she had caught him out in his emotional _experience_.

It just made Harry feel sick.

"Pillow talk, Dempsey?" she asked casually. "I expect you're quite fluent."

"I've had some practice, yeah… know all the lingo."

Again, that lascivious grin – a study in the art of provocation.

"I'm expecting great things then."

"So's Inga," he chuckled.

Would he? In the line of duty, would he sleep with this woman should the opportunity present itself? Although she was aware Dempsey was goading her, surely he wasn't stupid enough to climb between the sheets with a suspect – _that_ suspect.

There was a knock upon the studio door and their eyes met briefly.

"Just a second," Dempsey called out.

He nodded to Harry, indicating that they should assume their roles.

He went and opened the door to a smiling Gloria.

"Hello dear. Only me. I hope I haven't interrupted you," she said, craning her neck to find 'Odette' who was making a show of retying the belt of her robe.

"No, it's fine, don't worry," she called.

"The delightful Ms. Freeman-Kelty is welcome to stop by any time," Dempsey fawned. He stood back, sweeping his arm across to bow her in.

"No, no, I won't come in," Gloria fluttered. "I'm just taking Frobisher out for walkies and wondered if you'd like anything bringing back for your lunch. I mean, it isn't like you can do a packed lunch when you're living in a hotel, now can you? Are you hungry? Shall I bring you something back?"

"That's very nice of you," said Dempsey, "but we ate already."

Makepeace hurried to the door. "Errrm, Gloria, whilst you're here, we've just had some news."

Dempsey watched her as he said, "About Charlie."

Her eyes lit up eagerly. "Really? Has he been found? Has he turned up?"

"Maybe we could get everyone together?" Harry suggested.

"Is he alright? He is alright, isn't he?" she pursued.

Fluffy white Frobisher stood up and circled restlessly, his claws clicking on the tile.

"Well, we were thinking," said Makepeace, "that if you could possibly let the others know, we could tell everyone at the same time."

"Oh, of course, yes. Shall we say twenty minutes? I'll just take Frobisher to do his business and then I'll gather the gang together."

Gloria was clearly delighted to have been placed in charge of proceedings and right now, the nature of the news seemed almost unimportant to her.

* * *

"Bloody hell!"

Masters was the first to speak.

"Poor old Charlie."

There was another stretch of silent contemplation before Jenna asked, "How did they kill him?"

"They?" Paul queried so Dempsey and Harry didn't have to. "What makes you think it was more than one person?"

Jenna shrugged. "Dunno. It's just something you say, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

"Yeah, Paul, it is!" she fired back fiercely, "and I don't like what you're implying. I don't know any more than you do… in fact, maybe I know less."

Paul just laughed quietly.

"Now, now you two," Gloria admonished with a forced gaiety. "We've just had horrible news, let's not be at each other's throats. It's all upsetting enough as it is."

Makepeace saw her eyes glisten with emotion and wondered if she too should turn on the water works. "He was hit over the head," she told them.

There were murmurs of disbelief.

"What was he doing in Cornwall, anyway?" Paul asked.

"No one seems to know," replied Makepeace, trying to let her mind wander just enough to latch onto something sad that might force a tear or two. "Sir Alan said the police seem to think he might have been meeting someone down there… whoever it was who…" she allowed herself to stumble, "…who killed him."

She felt Dempsey's eyes upon her as she lowered her head briefly. The tears weren't forthcoming – she was concentrating too hard on the reactions of the artists but she was more than capable of acting upset.

"You okay, honey?" he asked.

She nodded rapidly and smiled. Play-acting over. She had displayed sufficient emotion; any bigger show and Dempsey might feel obliged to offer her comfort and she couldn't, with any sort of conscience, put him through that after the uncomfortable episode earlier.

Gloria gave her a sympathetic look. "You really don't need something like this do you, dear?"

"I just hope they throw away the key when they catch him," she said.

Billy shifted his weight from one foot to the other, rubbing his knuckles up and down his forearm as he asked, "Have they got any leads yet then? I mean, you'd think with him being in Cornwall, it'd be easier 'cause he must've gone there for a reason."

"Maybe he was on the run from loan sharks!" Gloria threw in dramatically.

Jenna rolled her eyes. "Doubt that very much. He'd have just got daddy to bail him out again."

"Maybe _daddy _told him no this time," said Paul.

"I do wish you two wouldn't be quite so flippant," she cried, obviously not recognising the glibness of her own remark. "It's not a thing to joke about. He's dead… Charlie is dead!".

"We're not joking, Gloria," said Paul, "we're just lightening the mood, that's all."

"Well I wish you wouldn't," she sniffed.

"Sir Alan doesn't know of any connections Charlie might have had in Cornwall," Dempsey said in answer to Billy's question. "The place they found him at was a rented property on the coast. He paid the owner by bank cheque two weeks before."

"So whatever he was doing down there, it was planned," said Masters, "it wasn't necessarily some moonlight flit."

"Who knows?" replied Dempsey. "Could be he knew he was overdue what was coming to him and got organised before it hit the fan."

"What's the police take on it? What are they saying?"

Makepeace raised her head and answered sombrely, "Following leads and making enquiries. That's what they say, isn't it?" Out of the corner of her eye she saw Dempsey fold his arms against his chest. "Whatever they're doing, it won't bring him back."

There was a forlorn note in her voice and the tiniest catch. She couldn't help herself, she knew it was wrong but she wanted to know how Dempsey would handle it when she pushed him. She was forcing him into a corner, making him react to Odette's pain as Montgomery surely would. She wanted to know if he could bring himself to touch her.

"Awful, just awful." Gloria shuddered as she moved to Harry and linked her arm through hers, thereby exempting Dempsey from any husbandly duties. "That poor young man. I mean, I know he could be silly sometimes but he didn't deserve to be beaten to death."

They each agreed with varying degrees of sober reflection.

Dempsey decided to go for it. "It sounds like the police may be coming back to ask some more questions. Apparently they seem to think there was some special piece he'd been working on – something big… size-wise," he clarified. "Does that mean anything to any of you?"

"Nope," said Billy succinctly and the detectives watched the others shake their heads, puzzled by the question.

* * *

"So whadya think? You hear anything back there to get your Spidey senses tingling?" Dempsey asked.

"Can't say as I did."

"No? You didn't think that little comment Jenna made to your guy was significant?"

Harry felt her chest tighten.

"I think I've told you before, Dempsey, he isn't 'my guy'."

The smug look that he made no attempt to hide infuriated her. She really shouldn't have risen to that one again.

"If you're talking about her saying that maybe he knows more than her, then no, I don't think it was particularly significant."

Dempsey huffed. "Were you even listenin', Makepeace?" He flung his arms up in frustration. "Her exact words were, 'I don't know any more than you do, in fact, maybe I know less', did you hear that, huh, or were you dippin' your toes in la-la land again?"

"Me?" Her voice rose in disbelief. "You're suggesting _my_ mind was elsewhere after…" She stopped. She would always long to know what had been running through his mind as his hands caressed that clay but it was one of those forbidden questions that would always remain unspoken.

"Just that I heard it like there may have been background, ya know?" he answered gruffly. "Sounded like hostility to me. You didn't hear that?"

He was right of course. She hadn't really picked it up at the time because her thoughts had been straying. She simply wasn't working to the best of her ability and they both knew it.

"Maybe," she conceded. "Or maybe he was just winding her up. I got the impression he was enjoying it."

"Well whadya know, me and your guy have got somethin' in common."

Was she supposed to find that amusing?

"We'll get Chas to run a check on Cotes, see what his current connections are, you never know," said Harry, ignoring his comment with ease. "What time do you think we we can reasonably get out of here?"


	21. Hooks

**Chapter 21**

"So what are your plans?" asked Dempsey, throwing the room key down on the dresser.

"Plans?" Harry questioned. "Well I was thinking of dinner with friends and then on to a club. What do you _think_ my plans are, Dempsey?" she threw at him. "I don't exactly have your freedom, do I?"

"I know that. That's why I wanted to know if you're gonna eat in the restaurant or you want me to hang around for room service so's you can get that cement overcoat off of you."

His exaggerated patience implied impatience and Harry realised how snappy she had sounded – again.

"Sorry," she said tensely. "I'll just use room service again if that's okay with you."

"Hey, whatever, Babe," he said sulkily.

They had entered the suite via Harry's room and now Dempsey strode across to the connecting door, popping his shirt buttons as he went. "I gotta call in and then I'm gonna grab a shower."

He disappeared off into his own room and Harry knew he wasn't going to volunteer to take the maternity vest off her this time, she would be forced to ask.

And she knew how it would go too, just a quick, straight-forward removal with as little physical contact as possible.

That was a good thing, she told herself. The pleasurable thrill it had induced had been quite shocking and if she should experience it or anything approximating it again, she was in serious danger of revealing to Dempsey more than he had bargained for.

She could hear him now on the telephone, asking one of the boys how his day had been, kidding around with him, 'shooting the breeze' as he would term it. Dempsey was so clever at creating this illusion of laid back high spirits but she knew that right now he was as tense and brittle as she was.

"Lemme speak to Chas would ya?" he asked.

Harry walked in right as he was slipping his shirt off his back, holding the receiver under his chin as he shrugged out of it.

"Boss man, ha?" he grimaced. "Great. His voice is just what I need to hear right now. 'Are you behaving yourself, Dempsey?'" he mimicked the Welshman's voice with little success. "'Has our company cowboy managed to find himself any'… Oh, hi Chief!"

He swung round, grinning into the receiver as he was cut short by the man himself and Harry caught his eye before he sat on the edge of the bed.

"Yeah, sure things are movin'… not as fast as I'd like but slow and steady wins the race, right?"

Standing behind and slightly to the side, Harry found herself gazing at her partner openly. If he looked up now he would catch her almost brazen stare and her thoughts would be revealed in all their lecherous glory.

She had to admit she enjoyed looking at his body. Toned and lithe from regular workouts but not over-done. The muscles were there, modestly defined in repose, more visible when he became animated.

Seeing him now made her uneasy. Her imagination had allowed her to believe it had been his body that had made love to her that night she had spent with Paul Masters. Did that make her sick? Was there something wrong with her? How would it make her feel to know that whilst he was bedding some other woman, he was pretending it was her? It was wrong.

He was pulling his trainers off now and his white sports socks followed.

"Here's a question for ya. What's Peter Cotes up to these days? Makepeace seems to think he's into corporate entertainment or somethin'. Would you be able to pull a file for us, Chief?"

Dempsey listened and then answered, "Handwritten on the back of some consignment note."

He went quiet again before replying, "Is that so?"

Harry waited whilst Detective Chief Inspector Spikings quizzed Dempsey some more, her back aching horribly and a headache just beginning to flourish at the back of her head.

She watched him stand up briefly to take his car keys out of his front pocket and ditch them on the bedside table before throwing himself down lengthways onto the bed, receiver still to his ear.

Dempsey lay there with his lower legs crossed one over the over, clad in only the faded denim jeans.

He fell silent for a moment whilst he listened to Spikings read from the printout Chas Jarvis had handed to him. He didn't look at Harry, instead frowning into some middle distant point, scratching haphazardly at his chest before taking to playing his fingers along the thin line of dark hair that ran down the centre of his abdomen and then disappeared into the waistband of his jeans.

Harry turned her head away. It was too tempting to watch, too tempting to give her imagination free rein.

"So we got ourselves a real connection here," said Dempsey, glancing up at Harry as he spoke. "The property Inga lives at was originally owned by Cotes before being _sold_ to Barry Weller, quote, unquote and Charlie Sachs, who was havin' a 'thing' with Inga before he got iced was also up to somethin' with Cotes."

Harry gave no sign of acknowledgment but she was suddenly more focussed. Here at last was something they could work with, a proper lead that might just help them to break the case.

After promising to call in first thing with an update on his night-shift activities, Dempsey reached behind him awkwardly to drop the telephone receiver back onto its' cradle.

"Okaaay," he breathed, rubbing his hands over his face vigorously. "Boy, lethargy sure makes me tired. Somethin' don't give soon, I may have to resort to a little gun slinging to relieve the boredom."

He sat upright, his legs crossed at the ankles and shoulders hunched forwards.

"Wherever it is you've been secreting that Magnum, Dempsey, it needs to bloody well stay there."

Although she knew before he'd removed his shirt that he didn't have it anywhere on his body because it was far too big to tape.

"You wanna know where I been hidin' it?" he asked with a cheeky grin.

"So then," Harry said, ignoring the question and plonking herself down at the foot of the bed, "looks like Peter Cotes and Inga aren't exactly strangers. Curiouser and curiouser."

She leaned to one side, bracing her hands behind her as she attempted to find a more comfortable position, one that might just possibly relieve the ache in her back and prevent the intermittent shooting pains that were attacking her neck.

"She's gotta have a pretty shrewd idea of what's goin' on, right?"

Makepeace nodded. "I would have thought so. I take it Spikings didn't offer any leeway? He's pulling us out tomorrow if we can't tell him what he wants to hear?"

"Yep. Gotta hand it over to C.I.D. He said the powers that be wanna do it by swarm not stealth. Full national media coverage, a big, fat, juicy slice of sensationalism served up with the morning newspapers. That's the way they wanna play it, that's the way it's gotta be."

"In other words," said Makepeace, tentatively arching her back, "bye-bye SI-10."

"That's what _they_ think," Dempsey said forcefully as he rose up from the bed. "I'm gonna go take that shower. I do some of my best thinking warm, wet and naked."

He went into the bathroom and as Makepeace stood up to leave she heard the sound of running water as the shower was switched on.

"Harry?"

She stopped at the door in time to see Dempsey reappear.

"You want I should get you outta the fat suit first?"

"Please," she answered meekly.

Although his attitude came across as casual, she knew there would have been a degree of deliberation involved before he had asked.

She came back into the room and he indicated that she should turn around. Quickly, she undid the buttons down the front of her dress and slipped if off down to her waist.

"What time did you arrange to meet Inga?" asked Makepeace as she felt his hands pulling at the cotton placket of the maternity vest.

"Seven."

Then the harsh rip of a thousand miniscule hooks parting with a thousand miniscule loops of Velcro.

"Right."

Dempsey tensed. The sound got to him. It was an aural confirmation of what he was doing to her, he was removing her clothing, taking off this outer casing to reveal her body underneath.

He told himself his fingers had swollen a little with the heat and that was what made him so clumsy as he tried to unfasten the tiny metal hooks.

It was taking too long. She must be wondering what the hell he was doing back here.

She wore a salmon pink coloured vest today he saw.

Was she, like him, forgetting to breathe? Her shoulders were perfectly still, no rise and fall, no whisper of air being expelled from her lungs.

"Don't wait up," he said lamely for want of something to kill the silence.

Makepeace laughed half-heartedly. "I packed a book. I'm sure I'll only manage a couple of chapters though."

"You tired too?"

"Mmm. I didn't sleep very well last night. Strange bed I suppose."

He broke off, flexing his fingers before trying again. This was stupid. It wasn't hard so why couldn't he make his hands work right?

"Kinda hot too I guess."

"Definitely."

They were being 'nice'. They didn't do 'nice'.

Four of the metal hooks popped apart and he felt a sense of relief.

"In fact," he smiled nervously, "I'm thinkin' maybe these hooks have got welded together in the heat."

"A zip would be easier, I'll grant you."

Not monotone but devoid of the usual inflection proving that like him, she wasn't breathing normally.

What did that mean; she was embarrassed, upset, anxious or was there something more, something warm and magnetic bubbling just beneath the surface? Was he imagining that, super-imposing his own feelings onto her? Because that was exactly what it was like for him, wasn't it? It wasn't that he was _drawn_ to her because it had gone way beyond that – he was _connected_ to her. It was the weirdest thing but last night, his hands running over her shoulders that way, it hadn't just been a turn-on, a sexy, unexpected encounter, it had been an epiphany. It had felt so God-damned right and natural like it was meant to be…

Jeez, his brain must be fried too! What he was getting off of her was good ol' fashioned awkwardness.

He'd made a fool of himself, plain and simple.

In his haste to unfasten the hooks now, he accidently let go of the Velcro flaps and they promptly re-attached themselves.

"Shit!" he swore with feeling.

"What's the matter?" Makepeace asked.

"Nothin'. Just this stupid-ass fat suit… getting' on my nerves."

He wrenched it open again and this time attacked the hooks with force.

It now gaped open to the middle of her back and he could see the salmon pink cotton beneath was creased and damp.

He felt as turned on as if he was stripping her out of a lace basque and it just wasn't right. She was his partner, nothing else. If she knew how uncomfortably tight these jeans were right now she'd put in for a transfer.

"Not as much as it gets on my nerves, I can assure you," said Harry.

The weight distribution began to shift slightly as the thing pulled open and Harry held both hands under the bump to keep it steady, the fabric of the dress bunched up in her grasp.

He was so close he could feel the heat emanating from her on his bare chest. And he could smell her warm skin, the scent of her shower crème or skin lotion, whichever it was, invading his nostrils.

He got down to the last couple of hooks at last and found his eyes drawn to the hem of the salmon pink vest where her exposed skin was just visible below.

His fingers were scant millimetres away.

"Okay." He had to clear his throat. "You're done."

He'd forgotten about the additional Velcro fastening that went between her legs and as she reached down gauchely inside the lower half of the dress to rip it apart, the swathe of material bunched at the back loosened and dropped a couple of inches. Below the vest, her naked hips and the gentle curve at the top of her blue cotton panty-clad buttocks.

And now she was expecting him to go around the front and hoist the fat suit of her like he had done last night.

It wasn't happening, not with this puppy straining at the leash.

"You wanna order yourself up some dinner" he asked, "and then do what you gotta do? I'll be done way before you so I can get the door."

Harry heard the bathroom door slam shut before she had even had chance to turn around.

She hesitated a moment, feeling rather ridiculous standing here in the middle of his hotel room, one hand clutching at her dress to prevent it falling around her ankles, her other hand maintaining the position of the bump as she felt it inching lower and lower now that it wasn't anchored at the back.

Why couldn't he just have helped her off with it? Now she had to waddle back to her own room and struggle by herself.

She felt disappointed. His hands hadn't touched her once, not even accidently. She had been waiting for that contact, a friendly push as he manoeuvred her into place, just the tiniest brush of his fingertips even, but, she supposed, he had been making a concerted effort to avoid that sort of contact.

She had been acutely aware of his presence behind her. Without even being able to see Dempsey, she had managed to pinpoint his exact positioning; where his mouth was, just a few inched from the top of her head, his shoulders and chest which seemed to envelop her, his hips in relation to her own and his legs as he stood parallel. And above all, she had felt the warmth of his body like a pleasant haze behind her. But maybe it was better this way. If he had attempted another neck massage like last night, where would it have ended? She knew that it could only have lead to yet more awkwardness between them because now wasn't the right time, not in the middle of a case and certainly not just before he was due to wine and dine a very beautiful suspect.

With that painful thought uppermost in her mind, Harry lumbered back through the connecting door to her room.

* * *

Cornelius Franks was what might be termed a 'good' restaurant.

If it wasn't for the fact that Dempsey was claiming on his expenses sheet, he probably wouldn't bring a woman here unless he particularly felt the need to impress her – or the woman was Makepeace who had, he was sure, never even set foot inside a Beefeater restaurant unless it was a requirement of work.

The bar area reminded him of a place he'd visited a few times back in Manhattan; shiny chrome, black plate glass and mirrors. Classy and very, very cool. Sometimes it worked for Dempsey but not always, sometimes he preferred small and friendly with a warm welcome.

The music appealed to him though. Blues, swing and jazz from a bygone era all brought a smile to his soul and as he sat on his barstool with a Scotch, waiting for Inga, he decided that tonight, he would put Harry out of his mind and pour everything he'd got into finding some answers.

It was the turning heads that attracted his attention first. Two, three, four guys, one after the other turning to watch the ethereal creature drift across the open floor space towards him.

He stood, himself captivated by the sight and held out his hand to assist her up onto the stool beside him.

"You look incredible!"

"In a good way I'm assuming?" she answered coolly.

Dempsey hung onto her hand and raised it to his lips. "In a very, very good way. You always get that kinda reaction when you walk in a room?"

Inga looked deep into his eyes, dragging him down into the blue depths of her own. "What reaction?" she asked and just when Dempsey was starting to wonder if she really didn't know what he was talking about, she leaned in towards him, her hand still held up between them and smiled a deliciously wicked smile.

Dempsey laughed. She certainly knew how to hook a guy and _he_ knew he was going to have to be careful or Inga might just swallow him whole tonight.


	22. Finger Food

**Chapter 22**

**It's been quite a while since the last chapter - time is just flying at the moment so sorry if you've been waiting. Thought I really should make the effort though and get this posted because it's off to Dundee next week to see the real 'Dempsey & Makepeace' on stage together performing in the play, 'Love Letters'. So ridiculously excited I can barely contain myself :-o**

**If anyone reading this (other than the usual suspects) is going to see it, let me know and we can say "hi".**

**WARNING - This chapter 'contains scenes of a sexual nature' as they say. Nothing graphic but that Inga get to live up to her reputation as a Dirty Little tramp.**

* * *

There was only time for small talk before the maître d' approached them to announce that their table was now ready.

Inga didn't take Dempsey's arm, instead, affording him a pleasant back view by following behind the maître d'.

She was wearing a black dress tonight, form-fitting but flaring out from the knee. The tiny seed pearls which adorned it complimented her milk-white skin and Dempsey noted that she moved with a dancer's grace in her high heels.

"So do you have work on right now?" Dempsey asked. "I'm thinking that even if you decide you'd like to model for me, I'm gonna have to wait in line."

Inga accepted the menu from the waiter who was hovering at the table.

"I don't like to plan too far ahead…just in case something more interesting comes up," she said suggestively, opening up the leather-bound menu.

"Okay, so maybe I could suggest a couple dates to you?"

"Are we still talking about work or have we moved on?"

"Well for convenience sake, how 'bout we combine the two?"

"They've got oysters!" she exclaimed. "I want oysters."

"You like those things? They ain't for me. I don't like that slimy texture."

"Don't you?" she asked with surprise. "I love it. And the fillet steak – bleau." She dropped the menu down and rested her elbows on the table. "There's something quite satisfying in swallowing an oyster. Maybe it's just a female thing."

"I'll have to take your word for that," Dempsey replied, inwardly quite amazed at her flagrancy. "What wine are we havin'? D'you have a preference?"

Inga shook her head and the froth of auburn curls swayed about her shoulders. "I don't really care. Something red in a green bottle. It all tastes the same to me."

The waiter returned and Dempsey ordered for them, opting for the steak himself although cooked so as not to require a scene of crimes officer as an accompaniment.

"So," said Inga, "what do I need to know about you?"

"What do you _want_ to know?"

"What are your credentials? Where have you exhibited?"

"I haven't, "Dempsey told her.

"You're joking!" she exclaimed.

"Not in this country anyways. I had my work shown in a few galleries around New York, an exhibition in Manhattan and I taught an art class for a couple semesters at a college on the East side."

"What are you doing in England then?"

"I dunno. Got bored with bein' home I guess. Thought old London town might inspire me."

The wine arrived and Dempsey immediately put a stop to the tasting ritual.

"Just pour it, buddy. I figure the prices you charge in this joint, it ain't gonna be gut-rot, right?"

Inga laughed delightedly as she broke off a piece of bread roll and buttered it.

"No, Sir," said the waiter obsequiously and filled both their glasses, "it certainly isn't gut-rot."

Taking up her glass, Inga drank half of it down.

"How d'you feel?" Dempsey asked, humourously.

"So far, so good."

Dempsey looked up at the waiter. "How 'bout you check back with her when the bottle's gone?"

"Yes, Sir." The waiter inclined his head. "Madame."

He left and Inga took another sip of wine. "Did you hear what he called me?"

"Huh?"

"I always feel I should object. _Madame _makes me sound like a bloody brothel keeper!"

He chuckled. "Never looked at it that way before. Want me to punch him in the nose when he gets back here?"

Something in her eyes told Dempsey that she would like that very much but she didn't reply, just watched him for a moment from behind her wine glass with an amused expression.

"Why are you living in a hotel?" she asked suddenly.

"Cause I don't like to plan too far ahead either. I'm lookin' around for a place," he told her. "Got the studio lined up so maybe now I'll check out a few places in the area."

"Are you making England a permanent thing?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"On how friendly the natives are and if I can get them to buy my work."

Inga tore off another piece of bread. "Oh the natives are very friendly, James." She applied a smear of butter and then leaning across the table, popped it into Dempsey's mouth. "You just need to learn how to handle them."

Dempsey tasted his wine. "With the right teacher, who knows, I may have them eating outta my hand."

"I think that's quite likely," she smiled.

Inga continued to ask her questions but Dempsey didn't find it too difficult to smother them with their parry of innuendo. He had always found that straight answers tended to get lost in sexual frisson.

It would be fair to say that Inga 'worked' her way through the half dozen oysters. She utilized them as a tool for seduction in the finest display of food solicitation he had ever witnessed. But she was oh-so-subtle, finding exactly the right balance between an innocent and a whore and although he was fully aware of her act, Dempsey still found himself being sucked in by it.

The arrival of the main course pulled things into focus somewhat – bloody meat might get Inga's juices flowing but it had the effect of curbing Dempsey's appetite for which he was thankful.

"So where do you live?" he asked. "Is it far from here?"

She pierced the sliver of red meat she had just cut with the steel tines of her fork and then looked up at him slyly. "I don't mind missing my pudding but I would quite like to finish my steak first."

Dempsey laughed. "Hey, I would never presume."

"Really? How gallant." The meat slid between her lips. "And how disappointing."

"I was just thinkin' I could use a little help finding a good neighbourhood but it's good to know I ain't gonna play second fiddle to no spotted dick."

"Spotted dick!" she laughed delightedly. "I'm amazed you've even heard of it."

"Sure. English delicacy. Always with custard, right?"

"Course. Has to be drenched in something hot, wet and creamy. It's the only way to eat it."

Dempsey had to make a conscious effort to carry on chewing. Inga was a bad girl and he could well imagine how this night would end if he let it.

"I love your quaint English traditions," he played along.

She regarded him hungrily, her tongue flicking briefly over her lower lip. "I'm glad to hear that."

"Better go easy with that," Dempsey said as she lifted the bottle of wine and topped up his glass. "I'm drivin'"

"It's okay, we have these things called Hackney cabs, James," she smirked.

"I think I might o' heard of them," he grinned, "but the thing is, I'd kinda like to stay sober tonight."

Inga raised an eyebrow in query.

"You never know when you might get lucky."

"Think you could make a pretty shrewd guess though, love."

Dempsey realised he hadn't even tasted what he was eating; had been pushing food into his mouth with automated disregard for flavour, texture or indeed quantity.

Okay, so he'd got nothing out of her yet other than the fact that she wanted him 'in' her – and she wasn't shy about the way she went about it. But he was aware he was distracted from his purpose, and that in itself was a good thing, he knew what he needed to concentrate on… if he could just focus on that instead of what was going on in his pants.

'_C'mmon, Dempsey, get with the programme', _he berated himself.

He decided to knock on the Peter Cotes door again.

"So am I gonna like your part of town?"

"Don't know. " She made a face. "Classy Kensington. Is classy your thing?"

That made him smile and the image of Makepeace that rose up so vividly in his mind brought along with it a moment of clarity. "I'd certainly like to do classy," he said.

That seemed to please Inga, believing that he was complimenting her. "That's what I thought. It's a flat. A bit small maybe but it'll do for now."

"Is it a rental? Maybe you could put me in touch with the agent."

Inga finished her wine and Dempsey immediately refilled it for her, topping up his own glass to empty the bottle.

"I rent privately," she told him.

"Yeah? Does your landlord have other properties? I'm thinkin' you could put in a good word, get me a good deal, ya know…use your powers of persuasion." He grinned.

Pushing the remaining sautéed potatoes and French green beans to the side of her plate, Inga picked up her wine glass and watched him continue to eat as she spoke.

"Actually, it belongs to a friend… a very good friend." She leant forward and placed the glass back on the table where she let her finger run lazily around the rim. "He may have other…" she emphasized the word, "_properties_ but I wouldn't know about that and I really don't care."

Dempsey shrugged. "Hm. Okay. So he's a nice guy who takes care o' you. Nothin' wrong with that. But he ain't there twenty-four seven and I'm guessin' a girl who likes her steak bloody has quite a voracious appetite, am I right?"

Her eyes glistened. "Exactly! I'm glad we're on the same wave-length, James."

Dempsey finished his food and moved the plate away so that he too could lean forward. Their heads were now very close together.

"So you and your 'landlord' have an _understanding_? It ain't no exclusive arrangement you got?"

The waiter came to discreetly remove their plates and left them with dessert menus.

"It's an arrangement that suits us both very well."

"An' what does this guy do? He somethin' big in the city?"

Inga's hand moved from the glass to stroke her fingers very lightly across his.

"He's a businessman. He does business. I don't know, something to do with corporate entertainment. He tells me bits and pieces but talking is usually quite low down on the list of priorities."

"So how d'you meet him?" Dempsey persisted.

Her fingers played across the back of his hand now. "Why the interest?"

And then with a flirty inquisitiveness, she asked, "or is that your 'thing'? Is that what gets you off – talking about it?"

"Lemme tell ya, I'm a man of action, baby. I don't get my rocks off over another guy's fun."

"Don't you?" she asked with a smirk.

"Just like to check out the opposition is all."

"Hardly opposition," Inga laughed. "I'm a kept woman not a fair maiden with a hand to be won."

Was that true, Dempsey wondered. Was she just Peter Cotes' mistress and knew nothing of his business dealings? In his experience though, the mistress was usually privy to every facet of her lovers' life and he was sure Inga would be no exception.

She turned his hand slightly and drew her nails slowly over his thumb and around into his palm.

"Just find it interesting," he said, watching her enticing ministrations. "Makes me kinda curious as to why any guy would wanna keep you on the side lines." He deliberately made his hand into a very loose grip, declaring his liking of the attention and she responded by covering the back of his hand and stroking it gently.

"Because that's the way I like it."

"Yeah? Leaves you plenty of time for other things I guess."

"Mmm," she purred. "I get to please myself."

She met his eyes, thus ensuring her meaning had been understood.

It had.

Dempsey reached for one of the menus with his free hand.

"You wanna choose dessert?"

He was hoping she had forgotten about her plan to skip dessert, much safer to keep her engaged in the restaurant because he had a feeling that once back at her place, he wouldn't get the chance to use his mouth for talking.

"I've already decided what I'm having," she said.

"You have?"

His powers of concentration were on the wane again.

She nodded. "I fancy something sweet and sticky."

Her lips lingered over the words, drawing him in slowly.

He drank down some more wine to distract himself, knowing even as he did so that the alcohol was going to have the effect of lowering his resistance even further.

"Apple pie?" he guessed. "Nothing says America like apple pie."

"I thought a dessert to share."

She leant away a little but continued to hold his eyes and he noticed her grip tighten.

"Okay, one bowl, two spoons," he grinned. "Sounds cute."

"Weeeeell", she smiled slyly, "something like that but actually, I prefer to eat with my fingers."

He had thought she had just been smoothing her dress down beneath the table; crossing her legs, hadn't been paying too much attention and so it was with shocked fascination that he watched her raise a glistening finger just inches from his mouth and slide it between her waiting lips.

"Jeezas, Inga!" he croaked, taking a quick check of the other diners to make sure they weren't being observed.

She laughed mockingly. "What?" she pouted. "I was hungry… I couldn't wait."

"You are something else, honey, you know that?"

He wouldn't be able to get up from the table now without drawing attention to himself and Inga knew it.

"Have I shocked you?" she giggled, planting her elbows on the table top and resting her chin on the backs of her hands. "I think I have, haven't I?"

He laughed in disbelief. "Nah… yeah, a little… I guess."

And she had. It took a lot to shock Dempsey but when something like that was directed at him personally, it kind of hit the spot.

"So shall we go?" she asked.

To say they'd just eaten, Inga had a ravenous look in her eye. She was offering it to him on a plate, probably garnished with silk scarves and handcuffs if that was what he wanted.

"Can we wait a while, d'you think? I need to let things go down," he told her pointedly.

"Yeah, you do… me!"

"An' that ain't helping."

If it wasn't for the fact that he was supposed to be working here…

"Okay, let's talk about somethin' else. Talk to me 'bout work. Who's had you sit for them? Anyone I woulda heard of? Got any names under your belt?"

Inga drank the last mouthful of wine, her eyes shining. "A few but probably none that an American would be familiar with."

"You wanna get another bottle of that?" he asked and without waiting for a reply, he raised his hand to get the waiter's attention. If anything was going to loosen her tongue it was alcohol.

"You don't need to get me drunk, James. I thought that much was obvious."

"That bein' the case, it's just gonna make things more fun, hah?"

"I always have fun, I have no inhibitions," she let her middle finger rest casually on her lower lip as she spoke, "in case you hadn't noticed."

He shifted uncomfortably. "Okay, enough already or I ain't gonna be leavin' this joint this side of Christmas!"

She wasn't so much a free spirit as a loose cannon. Definitely not the kind of girl you'd want to take home to meet your mother – much less your father.

Their waiter returned with the second bottle of red and as he poured, Inga said, "You may as well bring the bill now too. Something quite urgent has just come up." She drank from her freshly filled glass and licked her lips. "Hasn't it, James."

The waiter kept his eyes lowered. "Very good, madam."

"Tell ya one guy I heard of – Chris Montgomery. He's s'pposed to be real good."

The smile wavered just the tiniest fraction, not enough to even notice unless you were looking for it.

"He is."

"You know him?"

She nodded, taking another sip from her glass. "Yes."

"You've modelled for him?"

Inga arched her back and stretched in a very feline gesture, her tumbling mass of red hair swinging free from her shoulders in an eye-catching display.

"If you know anything about Christopher Montgomery you'll know that he only uses his wife, Odette, as a model."

"Yeah?" Dempsey feigned surprise. "Why is that? She's his perfect woman I guess," he answered his own question.

She gave a knowing smile. "Nobody stays perfect though, not even Odette. She's pregnant. Did you know that? A great big heifer and he loves it. Aesthetically pleasing. All plump and curvaceous, lots of scope there for a sculptor, wouldn't you agree?"

She was looking at him as though she knew, as if she had seen him in Studio 2, hanging onto that clay and shaking like a freaking junkie in need of a fix. How had he got himself into this position, where Makepeace had become a physical need? And why did the idea of her, swollen and fecund bring out these intensely complex feelings?

"Interesting shape for a sculptor, I gotta agree with you there."

"And do you find it sexually attractive?" she asked. "Apparently Christopher Montgomery can't get enough, loves her all bloated up like that which I find _very _weird to be honest."

Dempsey was feeling quite hot under the collar now. "I guess I can understand that if she's his wife and he loves her, he's gonna see it a whole lot different to you."

"And what about you, as a man, from an impartial perspective?"

"Well…" he began.

"Have you ever been sexually attracted to a pregnant woman?" she interrupted. "I mean, does it turn you on, enough to want to f*%k one?"

Things had begun to subside with astonishing rapidity.

"To be honest, Inga, it ain't somethin' I've given a lot of consideration."

He thought he had succeeded in sounding quite casual.

"Suppose not. I think it's interesting though, don't you?"

"Yeah, from an artist's viewpoint, it is, when it gets people askin' questions, ya know?"

"From anyone's viewpoint. I mean, to me, it's a woman with a beer belly and what's so attractive about that, for f*%k's sake?"

Dempsey laughed along with her, registering the way her words had become slightly elongated by alcohol. There was a good chance she could give something away now – always supposing there _was_ something to give away.

"You know the both of them?" he fished.

"Not really. I see them out and about. We tend to mix with the same people… you know what it's like, James." She gave him a seductive little half smile.

"You don't care for them too much, do ya?"

"He's okay. She's… " Inga pondered an adjective, "insipid."

'_Okay' enough to spread her legs for_, thought Dempsey.

"Let's face it, baby," he grinned, "Madonna looks like a wallflower compared with you."

"Don't know what you mean. I'm like a virgin," she took to playing with her almost empty wine glass again, "just waiting to be touched for the very first time."

"Sweetheart, I've met all-in wrestlers who were more virginal than you." He refilled the glass. "Never one as pretty though."

"Ooh now that sounds kinky! Was there mud involved?"

The wine barely wet his lips as Dempsey pretended to drink from his glass. Inga was now far from sober which made him all the more determined to keep a clear head.

"So Odette is 'insipid', hah?" he asked, pulling the conversation back. "Gotta have one helluva body for him to not wanna try out other models once in a while. Bet she's a stunner, right?"

Inga shrugged. "Not particularly."

"In that case, the guy's head over heels in love with her, dull or not."

"Ha!" she cried, triumphantly. "I'll let you in on a little secret, shall I? He asked me to model for him recently."

She couldn't stop herself, could she? Had to get it out there. Had to make sure he knew that no man could resist her. Vanity, thy name is woman.

"Behind her back?"

"Very possibly," she smirked. "He wanted us to model for a piece together."

"Whadya mean, like, you and her?"

"A female erotica version of The Lovers. After she'd dropped the sprog of course. I thought it was a fabulous idea but apparently she was having none of it."

"Sounds kind of interesting."

"Miserable bitch is just holding him back. A piece like that would've had impact but instead," Inga threw her arm out as she sat back in her chair, "she wants to tie him into this _nice_ mister and missus artistic partnership forever."

"But I guess if it works…"

"Come on, James, which would you rather look at, some prettily posed nude or two women in the throes of passion? I don't care if you're male or female, it titillates and if the sculptor is actually good, you can't go wrong, can you?"

"I can buy that, yeah. But his wife didn't wanna play."

Inga laughed. "Her loss. Believe me."

Seeing that lascivious look in her eye, he knew exactly what Odette had turned down.

Had Christopher Montgomery tried to pressure his wife into it? Had he been after more than just an image to sculpt? Thinking back to those photographs he had found, he wouldn't be surprised. He wondered if there was any connection with Charlie Sachs. Inga seemed to know too many guys involved in the case in the biblical sense for there not to be. A lethal mix of professional and personal jealousies maybe?

But where did Peter Cotes fit in? There had to be something illegal at the back of all this.

Dempsey decided there and then that whether Spikings took them off the case of not, tomorrow he would be paying the Montgomerys a visit. They could know something that might break the case wide open and not even realise it.

Twenty minutes later, Dempsey was opening the passenger side door of the police pool vehicle, a British Racing green BMW that was just old enough to have lost its' pizzazz.

"Home, James!" Inga told him and laughed at her own joke.

Dempsey smiled just enough to let her know that he got it. But he didn't find it funny. Makepeace had used that one a long while back when they had been out together and she had gotten so drunk that she couldn't remember how the night had ended. It still stung even now, to know that she had assumed he had taken advantage of that situation. He liked to think she knew him better these days.

"Okaaaaay!"

He signalled and pulled out sharply, narrowly missing another vehicle coming up from the rear.

"I know you're keen but we've got plenty of time, you know."

"Sorry," he apologised. "So which way should I be pointing? Wanna give me an address?"

Inga gave him the name of the road and brief directions from Holland Park which Dempsey confessed was the only area of Kensington he knew.

He wondered how much more he'd be able to get out of her before it was time to get down to the nitty gritty.

The air was muggy tonight and the atmosphere in the car, heavy. Dempsey flicked on the air conditioning and the immediate cool rush was a relief.

When Inga's hand reached out to rest on his upper thigh, he glanced down with surprise.

"Keep your eyes on the road, James," she told him, her fingers now brushing lightly over his groin before moving on to the zip of his fly.

Now this, he hadn't bargained for.


	23. In The Library

**It's been a long time since I last updated so I'm sorry about that. I think maybe after seeing the real Michael & Glynis on stage all week in Love Letters in Dundee a few weeks ago, it kind of took me out of the make-believe zone. I had high hopes for this chapter but it didn't turn out quite as racey as I was hoping for... Inga let me down a bit ;-)**

**Chapter 23 **

Makepeace was excruciatingly bored.

When she was a child, home from school for the long, seemingly endless Summer holidays and kicking her heels, she remembered her mother would always tell her, "a bored person is a boring person".

Fortunately, Harry couldn't remember the last time she had felt this bored other than on a surveillance and that really didn't count because reading a book or listening to music wasn't usually an option. And besides, there were many levels of ennui, weren't there? She had attempted a chapter of the Dorothy L. Sayers novel she had brought but even the razor sharp mind and enchantingly gauche personality of Lord Peter had failed to focus her concentration. And that was the problem; her thoughts were continually slipping back to James and… she thought of him as 'James' all the time these days… and his _night shift duties_.

She was a little jealous of Inga, she couldn't deny it, certainly not to herself. That abundance of long, sumptuous red hair, the flawless body that boasted such full, perfectly rounded breasts and endlessly long legs but more than the physical, she envied her her inhibitions. To feel just a fraction of her recklessness, to embrace that wantonness once in a while was almost a desire in itself. It wasn't about sex, although lord knew that was in her thoughts, it was having the confidence to express herself to him – James, as a woman rather than a colleague. When she tried, it came out all wrong, she was either defensive or aggressive towards him when her intention was to be… what? Maybe that was the problem then, she didn't know. More malleable? Flexible? Open? Yielding? No, none of the above, just more herself, that was all. It had all gone disastrously wrong when she had met Paul Masters though, hadn't it? By the time she had realised why she was attracted to him that night it was too late; the alcohol had started to take effect and was running rings around her logic. Under the influence, she had actually enjoyed the pretence. She had thought she was being clever. In her inebriated state it had seemed the perfect solution; she got to act out her unacknowledged fantasy of making love with James, whilst on the other side of the coin, she felt that somehow the one night stand (she refused to allow it to be sex with a stranger) had been merely an act of defiance. She had thumbed her nose at James. She didn't want him. He wasn't necessary to her life and to prove it she had lain in another man's bed.

When this case was done with, she had decided to put in for some leave. There had been talk of a trip to the south of France being organised for the end of October. It would do her the world of good. It was exactly what she needed, to get away from him… wasn't it? If she wasn't around him it would be easier. Distance would give her a chance to get her head together. She was just messed up a bit at the moment what with Paul Masters cropping up like that and the whole fake pregnancy thing. She couldn't wait to leave it all behind.

Standing up from the non-too comfy tub chair in which she had tried to read, Harry leaned out of the open window.

The still air outside seemed as stale as it did inside but tainted with bitter traffic fumes too. It was dark now and Makepeace watched as cars glided smoothly up to the traffic lights like gentle shooting stars, the noise of their engines a calming throb to her ears.

She purposefully hadn't looked at her watch but guessed the time to be somewhere around 10:00pm. They would have finished eating by now. Had they moved on to some chic little bar, getting friendly on shorts? She should go to bed. What was the point in waiting up? Was she really going to go knocking on that connecting door at midnight to ask what he had found out… that's if he came back at all.

Suppose he didn't put in an appearance until morning? She needed to find oblivion in sleep – that way she might avoid the truth of his actions and save herself the misery of knowing.

When had all this begun creeping up on her? When had she first realised that the existence of female companions in Dempsey's life gave rise to these niggling, acidic little stabs of jealousy? It wasn't fair. She didn't want to feel this way. She hated this feeling of ambivalence and the brushed gold glow that now obscured her view of him was something to be feared.

Picking up the bowl of fruit salad left over from dinner, Harry went and lay on the bed with her book.

The trouble was she wasn't even tired. Taking off that bloody bump had restored a certain amount of energy but also left her strangely empty.

How could it still be so tender?

Leaning over, she switched the bedside lamp off and lay propped up on her pillows with the bright lights from the street illuminating the room. It made her feel secure and cocooned but she wanted someone to share that feeling with.

* * *

"Help yourselves," said Cotes, indicating the decanter of Scotch on the black ash wooden tray.

"Cheers, Mister Cotes."

Shelton crossed eagerly to the sideboard and poured a healthy measure into a glass. It wasn't so much the drink as the offer itself that appealed to him. Drucker, on the other hand seemed to be unimpressed by his boss's magnanimity and splashed the liquid into his glass with a casual air.

"So I've got a nice little job lined up for you two," Cotes told them, taking his Scotch and sitting down on the elegant white sofa. "You're going to Cornwall for a few days."

"Cornwall!" the men chorused.

"Our greedy little artist friend turned up dead on a beach there. The police haven't released any information yet but I have it on good authority he was holed up in some place called Dirrin on the coast."

"And you want us to find out what he got up to while he was there," said Drucker, unmoved by the news of death.

Cotes stretched one arm along the back of the sofa and rested his glass on his knee. "To be honest, I don't really care what he got up to, I just want the goods back and I want it done with the minimum of fuss."

Shelton nodded. "Okay. Bit of subtle asking about…"

"Emphasis on subtle," Cotes interjected.

"Yeah, course, boss."

"And make sure you ditch the suits, okay? I don't want you looking like a couple of coppers or worse still, hired heavies," he said with irony. "You'll be tourists looking to meet up with a friend."

"Think we can manage that, Mister Cotes," Drucker told him smoothly. "When do we leave?"

"Pack tonight. I want you on the road first thing."

He reached for the large, plain manila envelope on the low table at the side of the sofa. "This contains a map of the local area, a booking for the Traymarrick Hotel and your expenses."

Shelton held his hand out to receive the thick envelope but Drucker beat him to it.

"How long do you want us there for?" he asked.

"The reservations are for three nights. I'm expecting results within that time otherwise you're on your own."

Shelton looked slightly alarmed. "You mean we don't come back empty handed?"

Cotes smiled tightly. "I don't necessarily expect the goods but I do expect you to find out where they are. There's a lot of money at stake here and I can't stall my buyer forever. If he gets a whiff of this then he'll call the deal off, dead mules do _not_ inspire confidence."

"Could be out of the country by now," put in Drucker.

"Ad if that's the case, Inga will be packing a suitcase."

"Wouldn't mind a trip abroad," grinned Shelton. "You could send me instead and she can do Cornwall."

Shelton had been joking but it suddenly looked a far better proposition to Cotes.

"You know something, you're right. Makes sense, doesn't it? A couple is going to get a much better response than a dodgy looking pair of chaps nosing around, asking questions."

Cotes looked to Drucker. "That alright with you?"

It obviously wasn't really up for discussion but Drucker didn't particularly mind. He'd always given as good as he got with Inga and she seemed to appreciate that. He played it cool and she treated him as her equal… more or less. He knew there was a pecking order.

"So I'm not going to Cornwall now?" Shelton groaned.

Cotes smiled. "No. You talked yourself out of it rather well," and then added sarcastically, "I'm impressed."

* * *

"That isn't the greatest idea, Inga," Dempsey said, moving her hand away from his groin

It was returned immediately.

"Funny but I'm feeling a completely different phrase here – something like 'get your laughing gear around this'."

"My WHAT?"

Dempsey was distracted for a moment and Inga was able to unzip him.

"Hey, hey, hey!" he objected, grabbing hold of her hand again.

"Laughing gear – mouth."

"Whatever. I'm serious. Not here. Not while I'm driving."

"God, James. Didn't have you down as a prude," she jibed.

"I'm not. I have my reasons. No one messes with the shift stick when I'm drivin', okay?"

Inga seemed to accept this knock-back as a challenge. Leaning across, she whispered into his ear, "Find an open stretch of road and I promise I'll make you change your mind."

He was forced to let go of her hand in order to change down to second and Inga took advantage of the situation by slipping her fingers into his fly.

"Have you ever climaxed at a hundred miles an hour?" she breathed, massaging the imprisoned length of him as she gently worked to release him.

"Didn't quite make it to a hundred…"

Inga laughed, now employing both hands to aid her in unfastening his belt.

"… came off the road."

"What?"

Her hands stilled.

"The girl who was providing the entertainment wound up in a coma for two weeks, I was paralysed from the waist down for three months…pretty ironic, huh?"

"Seriously?"

"I was nineteen. Confined my thrill seeking to amusements parks since then."

Inga didn't know whether he was telling the truth or not but the story made her uncomfortable enough to stop anyway. Maybe he was just putting up resistance. He was 'on duty' after all. But still, there would be plenty of opportunity to get him to change his mind once they got to her flat. Unless Dempsey was gay, which she very much doubted, there was no way he'd be going back to his hotel 'unsullied'.

The very idea of having to break him down made her horny. Men were always eager, even the married ones once it was offered to them on a plate. The thrill of the chase was something usually reserved for the males of the species but right now, those predatory instincts were kicking in and she fully intended to master him before the night was over.

"But it's only moving vehicles that are a no-no, I hope?"

"Yep. Moving vehicles and cold storage facilities but that's another story."

She was facing front again but still couldn't resist stroking his thigh.

"Really?" she purred. "I want to hear all about that one later. Next on the left and then straight over the lights."

He followed her instructions, feeling righteous. He'd been that close to a little piece of heaven and he'd diffused the situation with relative ease. He was focussed. He had a job to do. Inga was guilty as hell though of what he had no idea yet but he would do everything in his power to find out.

* * *

She didn't ask him, just poured out two glasses of brandy and handed him one.

"Aren't you hot in that jacket?" Inga asked, pulling gently at a lapel. "I think you should take it off."

With a smirk, he gave her back the glass and without breaking eye contact, removed the beige linen jacket, took off his tie and finally popped the top button of his shirt.

"That's better," she said quietly, reaching up to undo the second button.

Without a word, she took both garments from him and laid them unceremoniously across the back of an armchair.

"So!" Inga flopped down on the couch, her legs slewed at an angle.

"So." Dempsey turned his back to her and examined the flowers in a sparkling crystal vase set on the telephone stand. "Courtesy of your landlord?" he asked. There was no card with them.

"Beautiful, aren't they?"

But they were from Christopher Montgomery, not Peter Cotes. He always brought flowers with him when he visited. It made her laugh; it was such an old fashioned gesture and he was really anything but old fashioned.

"An' I always thought diamonds were a girls' best friend."

"Not this girl."

"No? So what is it that floats your boat?"

"Besides the obvious, you mean?"

Dempsey made himself turn around. Jeezas, the way she was laying there, provocative and inviting and she just didn't give a shit. She was just waiting to see if he would make a move and if he didn't then she would.

"Hot climates, white beaches and blue skies," Inga told him.

"I wouldn't have thought you'd be quite so easily pleased."

She kicked off her shoes and drew her legs up as she raised her glass to her lips. "Simple pleasures and basic needs, really… if you know what I mean."

He did. He knew exactly.

His attention was caught by a framed pencil drawing hanging in an alcove, half obscured by the big, green leathery leaves of a Monstera Deliciosa.

The drawing was only small, roughly ten by eight but Dempsey instantly recognised it.

"D'you mind?" he asked, lifting up the plant in both hands to give him a clear view.

The picture was of Inga. It was only initialled _C.M. _but that was enough; it was clearly done by Christopher Montgomery.

"I like this. It's a preliminary sketch, right? Did a finished work come out of it?"

For the first time, Inga appeared just the tiniest bit rattled.

She was wondering if he had guessed the artist's hand because if he had, it would be obvious that she knew Christopher far better than she had implied.

"It wasn't for anything serious. Just trying out a few ideas."

"Isn't it Christopher Montgomery? He never works with anybody but his wife, you said."

Dempsey replaced the potted plant and turned to her with a grin. "But for you he was willing to make an exception."

It had been a mistake, leaving the framed drawing on display like that. She knew it and Dempsey knew it but there was nothing to be done about it now.

"What makes you so sure it's one of his?"

How could she have been so stupid, she asked herself. He was the police for God's sake! As if he'd miss a piece of 'evidence' like that.

"C.M? Kind of a coincidence, ha?"

She shrugged. "He wanted to keep quiet about it. Didn't want to upset his wife in her delicate, hormonal state."

"Is that so?" mused Dempsey. "So he was happy to ask that you and she get together for a little artistic collaboration but didn't want her to know you'd worked together already."

"We were protecting her feelings," she said with mild sarcasm. "Not a crime, is it?"

"I guess not."

Dempsey was starting to feel sorry for Odette. If Montgomery had fallen under Inga's spell during such a crucial time in their relationship, what hope was there for their marriage?

"Anyway…" Inga rose up from the couch like Aphrodite from her shell, "that's just work. I want to play!"

She knocked back the rest of the brandy and after dumping the glass down, pranced over to where he stood by the alcove and put her arms up around his neck.

"Do you want to play with me, Mister Dempsey?" she teased.

He wrapped his arms about her, his own glass still gripped in his right hand.

"What game did you have in mind?"

"Oh, I don't know." Her lips brushed against his throat as she spoke. "Something energetic."

"Rough and tumble, hah? Somehow I guessed you wouldn't be into board games."

"Too dull for my liking." Her lips pressed gently just below his ear. "Miss Scarlet may have done it in the library with a candlestick but she'd have had much more fun if Colonel Mustard had been there to witness it."

Dempsey laughed and let his free hand smooth over her buttock. She murmured a breath of pleasure and pushed against him.

"I'll bet you play to win, am I right?" he asked.

Her tongue flicked lightly into the hollow of his neck before she trailed her lips up to his Adam's apple.

"I usually come out on top, yes."

She drew away from him then to look into his eyes, checking what effect she was having on him.

To her satisfaction, he pulled her back roughly and kissed her hard.

He couldn't pretend he wasn't enjoying this, certainly not physically – and he was making it all too obvious. But he wasn't gonna go through with it… no way… he… Her hands were at the buttons of his shirt again, had them all undone now and was pulling the shirt from his waistband.

She took the glass from him and without even looking, placed it beside the plant in the alcove.

"You can finish that later."

She returned her mouth to his and they kissed hungrily as she pulled the shirt off him. His hands ran up her sides, feeling the tautness of her ribcage when she breathed in with a pleasurable gasp. And then one hand was moving to mould her breast and the other tangling through her mane of red hair, clasping the back of her head as the kiss deepened.

They broke apart, in need of air and Dempsey's eyes fell to her chest, her cleavage displayed to perfection.

He couldn't deny he was tempted but there was just something about her that didn't sit right with him. It wasn't only that she was a suspect and the underlying feeling that somewhere along the line he was being played for a fool, it was the fact that she was a tramp. But why should that bother him? He'd gotten involved with a few in his time; casual stuff, one night stands, two people indulging themselves in no-strings physical fun. Why was it suddenly a problem to him?

"Wow!" he grinned, gently pushing her breasts together, playing out the stereotypical male sex fantasy.

Inga held onto his hands, spurring him on with soft moans of encouragement.

Dropping his head to kiss in between her pale, full breasts, he at the same time slid his hand to the back of her dress in search of a fastening.

What was the matter with him? Hell, he should just go for it.

He found a zip underneath the long red tresses and tried to move her hair out of the way.

Putting her arms up over her head, Inga gathered up her hair and lifted it out of his way as she turned around to give him free access.

"Is that easier?" she purred.

"Uh huh," he managed, gazing down at the nape of her neck and the tilt of her head.

He stared hard at the zip and his fingers rested hesitantly on it for a moment.

Inga seemed to pick up on this instantly.

"Go on then."

Unconsciously holding his breath, he yanked the zip down.

"Okay honey," he said gruffly. "Let's see whatcha got."

She turned back around and Dempsey pulled the dress from her shoulders.

"Ooooh, are you going to be rough with me, James?" she simpered and there was fire in her eyes.

But he was losing the impetus.

"Great tits," he said coarsely, surprised by his own sudden lack of enthusiasm and anxious to see its' return.

She shimmied out of the rest of the dress and stood before him in Dempsey's all-time favourite – black lace. "Great everything," she said, striking a sexy pose designed to heat his blood.

He was worried now. Life signs fading fast. Even as he asked himself what was going wrong, he could hear his mind telling him the answer.

But it was stupid, nonsensical and he refused to listen, instead reaching out to drag her towards him and deftly unfastening the boned lace bra to release those glorious milk-white globes.

A slight resurgence.

"Well? What do you think? Do you still want to use me?" Inga asked.

"Wanna use you all night long, babe."

Yeah, he could talk the talk but the walking part of it was gonna see him flat on his face.

Do you still want me to model for you?" she corrected coyly, placing her palms flat against his bare chest.

"Yeah. Sure."

He watched his own hands trail down her upper arms and then back up to run along her collar bone.

He just didn't want her.

She'd made it too easy and too meaningless. Shouldn't there be a point to making love? But that was it, there was no love. Maybe he was getting old or maybe he was growing up but he wanted more than just sex. Funny, cause it was scary how much more he wanted and who he wanted it with.

Inga leaned towards him, pressing her body against his and he responded by grabbing her buttocks in both hands and lowering his head to kiss her again.

His head felt crammed with nothingness; a limbo place filled with blocked out thoughts and semi-erased images that threatened to erupt into life at any moment. What was he trying to prove? He didn't want this. For the first time in far too long he actually needed sex to mean something.

"Why don't you come with me?" Inga said, hauling him by his belt as she stepped backwards. "I know a game we can play if you're feeling adventurous."

She had sensed a sudden reluctance a few minutes earlier and it was worrying her now. Not only was the hidden camera ready to roll, so was she! She wanted him quite badly. There was something incredibly sexy in the timbre of his voice and he had the most wonderful hands, like a real artist. But then, he was a real police detective which in itself lent a certain excitement to the situation.

He let go of her briefly, both arms by his sides as he looked down at her hands holding onto his belt.

"'kay."

He rubbed at his neck and then at his nose before smiling broadly and clamping his hands about her waist.

He was nervous, Inga realised. Now that was a surprise. He really didn't seem the type to turn chicken unless…

"Come on them." She began to unbuckle the belt. "We're going to have some fun tonight."

She tried to mould herself against him again, to encourage him to move on but the hands at her waist were now actually acting as a defence. So either he was a cop with some pretty high morals or…

"You know, James, there's something I never asked you."

"Oh yeah, and what's that?"

The smile was false, she could see that quite clearly.

"Where have you got Missus Dempsey tucked away?"

His chin jerked a fraction. Had her arrow found its' mark?

"In a retirement home in Florida," he replied dryly, "but what's my mother have to do with anything?"

"Soooo," Inga pried open the button on his flies, "you aren't married?" Gently, she pulled at either side and the zip drew apart. "It's just that you seem to have gone off the idea." She looked down quizzically. "Unless I'm very much mistaken. And there must be a very good reason for that."

"I ain't married," he told her quietly.

"Then what are you, James? Not worried about Mister Landlord turning up, surely?"

"Look, I… I don't know… I'm not sure that…"

"If there isn't a wife lurking in the background then at least tell me there's a girlfriend otherwise I'm going to be seriously offended."

He turned away, fastening himself back up.

"Is she blonde and pretty? I bet she is, isn't she?" Inga smiled slyly. "And she's in love with you of course."

"Somethin' like that," he mumbled as he reached for his shirt.

"Are you in love with her though, that's the question? I'm sure you love her but are you _in _love with her? It's just that the fact you're here with me makes me wonder."

She raised a speculative eyebrow.

He hated this 'crossing the line' stuff and he'd done that now with spectacular flair. His feelings for Makepeace had gotten in the way of his cover, letting his personal life interfere with the case was pretty much what he'd accused her of.

"James," she said softly, "it really doesn't have to be a problem. I know how to keep a secret if that's what's bothering you."

She went to him again, kissing lightly at his neck even as he continued to button the shirt.

"I know. I realise that… only not tonight, okay?"

"Not tonight," he repeated flatly, finally drawing back. "That's a shame, it really is. You're just going to leave me high and dry – well, not dry, obviously." She gave a disappointed sigh. "Anything but."

He was disconcerted by the whole thing and just wanted out. Inga by herself he could deal with but now his own demons had been thrown into the mix it had become intolerable.

"I'm sorry, I guess it's complicated." He picked up his jacket.

"I hate that expression," she pouted, "and there's certainly nothing complicated about f"%king; it's the most natural thing in the world."

"Can I call you?" he asked humbly. It wasn't hard to sound regretful; he was stepping away from this practically empty handed.

"Call me? You still want me to model for you then? Christ, anyone would think you only want me for my body!" She appeared annoyed but then broke out in laughter. "But that doesn't seem to be the case, does it?"

She regarded him with supercilious good humour. "I'll call _you_ when I'm ready but now I think I've got a date with another one of girls' best friends and a brand new set of batteries."

Saucily, she hooked her thumbs into the sides of her lace panties. "I'm sure it wouldn't be classed as cheating if you wanted to come through to the bedroom and cheer me on to the finish line."

"That's one hell of an interesting offer but I think I'm gonna pass."

"I'll be thinking of you," she laughed silkily.

"I'll be thinking of you, thinking of me."

That sent a visible thrill through Inga. "Of course you will and I'm sure your pretty blonde will enjoy the benefits of that tonight."

He grinned.

"And next time I see you, James, you can tell me aaaaall about it."

She kissed him goodbye then; a long, languid kiss that caught him up in its' intensity.

…

Makepeace hadn't drawn the curtains, preferring to let the flood of light from the car headlights wash over her as she lay on her bed in the dark. It relaxed her mind and brought her a modicum of peace as she hovered between sleep and him.

It was almost 2:30am when she heard the door to room number ninety three open and saw the strip of light appear at the foot of their connecting door.

Keys being dropped onto the bedside table.

A faint, low, none descript whistle.

She turned over onto her side and drew her knees up to her chest.


	24. Leap Of Faith

**Chapter 24**

**It's been a while in between chapters again - sorry. Didn't have any writing time last weekend as I was in London at a concert. If you're still reading, Lady Midnight, it was Lenny at the O2 ;-)**

* * *

She was miserable.

He could sense it.

Makepeace wasn't just hacked off or annoyed, she was deep-down unhappy and that kind of freaked Dempsey because he genuinely didn't know what he could do about that.

Treading on eggshells wasn't exactly his forte and neither was providing Makepeace with succour.

"That feel okay?" he asked, hefting the straps of the maternity bump up a little,

"Not really but it's as good as it gets."

She turned to face him then. "Although by the sounds of it I won't have to wear the damned thing for much longer."

He watched her shrug into a geranium red smocked maternity top and he noted that the colour suited her, bringing out the luminosity of her skin and the blue of her eyes.

"Guess you really lucked out with my big, fat zero."

"I suppose Spikings will bring us in as soon as you make the phonecall."

"You sure you don't wanna do that? Tellin' the boss how I failed could give you a real boost."

She opened her mouth to say something but obviously thought better of it, instead going to the wardrobe and dragging out her suitcase from where it was tucked against the wall.

"I'll start packing. Think he'll let us squeeze in breakfast before we go?"

"How 'bout we have our breakfast and _then_ I'll make the call?"

Makepeace glanced at her watch as she opened her suitcase on the bed. "Wouldn't if I were you. You know Spikings, he'll be at his desk by now."

He knew she was right.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Deprive a man of his last meal why don'tcha."

Dempsey slunk back through the connecting door, his shirt undone and his feet bare.

He was tired. After leaving Inga last night he'd found himself the perfect bolt-hole in the form of a shabby little jazz bar down a backstreet. For almost four hours he'd indulged his senses; drinking in a heady cocktail of mellow ambience, smoky atmosphere and the even smokier singing voice of a middle aged black female vocalist who had had the power to transport him to another time and place.

For that short space of time he was able to put his hang-ups and screw-ups behind him.

He'd failed in his efforts to pump Inga for information (an unfortunate phrase maybe) and whilst he wanted to believe that was down to the woman's guile, he was almost certain that had he been prepared to go that extra mile, she'd have revealed more than just her body to him.

But he hadn't… couldn't… well he could if he would of put Makepeace out of his mind, damn her!

And it was because of her he hadn't gone straight back to the hotel last night. What would it have looked like if he'd of shown up at 10:00pm? Like he hadn't tried hard enough? Like Inga had given him the brush-off? Like he was a lousy detective, that's what. At least by staying out so late he knew she'd be sleeping and there could be no awkward questioning on his return.

Just now, he'd given her the expected jive; highlighted his prowess in the field of charm and made sure Makepeace was aware that Inga had lived up to her reputation without actually supplying any gory detail. He hoped she got the picture – conditions had been perfect but Inga had refused to bite.

He hadn't expected anything other than the usual cool mask of indifference and that was exactly what he got. That serene smile and slightly disinterested air always got to him, made him spread it a little thicker than he ought to sometimes just to provoke more of a reaction.

What, did he think he was gonna make her jealous? For that to happen there would need to be more than a superficial attraction goin' on. He knew there was _something_ with her – he'd caught her looking at him sometimes in that certain way. But he didn't flatter himself by interpreting that as anything more than a physical thing at its basest level. Probably didn't even know she was doing it.

* * *

With one paper napkin tucked inside his shirt neck and spread out across his front like a bib and another laid along the edge of the desk, Gordon Spikings unwrapped his breakfast with relish.

A giant bacon, sausage and fried egg roll, liberally doused with brown sauce and containing enough cholesterol to clog the arteries of the London Underground was now in his hands.

The good lady wife would object in the strongest possible terms if she knew, but she didn't so just for this little ten minute interlude, all was right with the world. But then, just as he lifted the heart-breaker to his mouth, the telephone on his desk began ringing.

Spikings frowned. It was still only 7:30am. Nobody rang at this time in the morning unless it was urgent.

Quickly dumping his breakfast onto the napkin laid upon the desk, he snatched up the receiver with floury fingers.

"Spikings," he announced evenly, brushing his other hand against the napkin at his chest.

"Makepeace made me do it!"

Spikings took a beat to compose himself.

"Made you do what exactly?"

"Check in with you before we check out. It's kinda early still."

"Meaning your dinner date was a flop?"

_Yowzer! Kick a man when he's down!_

"She's a hard nut to crack. Gimme another couple days an' I'll guarantee a result."

"Now you know I can't do that, Dempsey. I've got the Assistant Commissioner breathing down my neck. SI-10 has passed the deadline, they're taking it back and dispensing with the softly softly approach. I've told you, Sir Alan wants full media coverage to find his son's killer. There isn't…"

"I'm this close, boss!" Dempsey interrupted, holding up his pincered thumb and forefinger. "She's in this thing up to her neck."

"And on what, pray tell, are you basing that theory? And please spare me your usual, 'the nose knows' rubbish."

"More than that, boss. It turns out our hand-in-glove, eager to serve member of the public, Christopher Montgomery knows her. Intimately."

Spiking's moustache gave an involuntary twitch. "Intimately?"

He listened with mounting interest as Dempsey told him of Inga's association with their cover. The Montgomerys had been most obliging when approached by SI-10 to assist with the investigation but maybe anything else would have appeared obstructive.

"There's still no evidence of any wrong doing on either side though is there. Montgomery or Inga whatever-her-name-is. And by wrong doing, I mean within the reference of the law. If the bastard's doing the dirty on his pregnant wife though, I'll make good and sure he lives to regret it."

Dempsey was no longer under any illusion; it would take a lot of love to resist the temptation of Inga and he just hadn't ever gotten that vibe from Montgomery.

"Trust me, he's guilty as sin far as that goes," said Dempsey with solid conviction.

"Hmmm."

Spikings eyed his breakfast roll and weighed his officer's words against his commanding officer's remit.

"I'm pulling you and Makepeace because I don't have a choice, Dempsey. You're off the case as of now which means your covers are no longer required. I'd like the two of you to inform the Montgomerys and make them aware that SI-10 will be in touch during the course of the day regarding an official de-brief. If what you're saying is right then Montgomery has already blown your cover and it won't be so much an interview today as an interrogation. Now if you were to…" Spikings chose his words carefully, "prepare the way, shall we say, off the record, it might at least give us something concrete to hand on to the Met."

Dempsey brightened.

"You're givin' us an extention?"

"I never said that; I'm simply pointing out that during the course of your conversation with the Montgomerys, certain information relating to the case may be inadvertently gleaned… if you catch my drift."

Spiking unofficial blessing was a bonus – Dempsey had already planned on asking some very searching questions.

"Oh and Dempsey?"

"Ah-ha?"

He had the receiver tucked in between his chin and his neck as he sat on the edge of the bed putting on his socks.

"Tread carefully, alright? No need to go upsetting Odette Montgomery, not in her condition. We'd have their lawyers down on us like a ton of bricks."

"Lemme tell ya, I'm changin' my name to James Golightly! I've taken a crash course in dealin' with hormonal women recently."

"I won't ask," said Spikings, fearing the worst.

"And I ain't tellin'. I wanna keep a hold of my cajones."

What was it with those two? How as it possible for them to fight like cat and dog and yet work so well together? But why should he worry when they brought him results and he could tell by the tone in Dempsey's voice that he wasn't happy to let this one go.

"I want the pair of you back here sharpish, mind! I'll need your typewritten reports in full by noon, ready for the handover."

Dempsey was gutted. "Noon? That's like your subtle way of sayin' twelve o'clock, right? C'mmon, Chief, you want us draggin' the Montgomerys outta bed now? Cause that's what it's gonna take to get the paperwork in your hands."

"I suggest you get yourselves a few sheets of fancy hotel notepaper and start writing it up now than."

Spikings looked at his congealing bacon, egg and sausage roll.

"Over breakfast maybe. I don't suppose you've eaten yet either."

"Okay, I can go with that. This place does a mean Eggs Benedict."

"I don't need a menu, Dempsey, I need a report."

"You given up on us already, boss? It ain't over yet. It ain't over 'till the fat lady sings."

"And speaking of which, you can tell Makepeace she's delivering her baby today – back to the agency. That'll please her, I'm sure."

It would. She hated that thing with a vengeance. But Dempsey didn't want to look too deep into that immediate flutter of regret that brushed against his heart. It'd been… not fun exactly but he'd liked that feeling he got from others thinking he was with Harry and that he was an expectant father. Gloria Freeman-Kelty had actually seemed excited, conveying a genuine feeling of happiness for them. Made him feel bad about deceiving her.

"Well, she ain't happy you're takin' the case off of us, that's for sure."

"The patter of tiny typewriter keys is all I'm expecting now. If you get anything out of Christopher Montgomery to add to the report, I'll consider it a bonus."

* * *

Dempsey quickly finished getting dressed.

He didn't want to let this go. He knew they were close to a break-through now but would that come in the few short hours remaining to them?

At that moment, just as Dempsey was about to head back to the other room, the door was flung wide and Makepeace stood before him, a curious air of triumph about her.

"What?" he asked, surprised.

"Those numbers on the back of the delivery note… the dimensions… I think I know what they're for."

Her eyes were bright with excitement, her right hand cradling the bump in front of her and for a split second her words were lost on Dempsey.

"Numbers?" he repeated before adding casually, "What about them?"

"Three one five by one four eight by one one zero. It's White Papers!"

He quickly let that filter through his mind. "The briefcase? Nah, can't be. Too small to be a briefcase."

"How about the internal dimensions of a briefcase though Dempsey?"

This was probably the most animated he'd seen her since the investigation began.

"And how about the internal dimensions of _four_ briefcases?" she continued, "at least the four that we know about. I think we've maybe been looking at this from completely the wrong angle; Sachs wasn't selling copies of White Papers, he was smuggling something _inside_ copies of White Papers."

He nodded slowly as he mulled it over. "So Peter Cotes…?"

"Buying, selling, who knows?"

He wasn't about to hide his scepticism. "And you're basing this on what exactly?"

"Oh, come on! It's what you'd call a hunch. I call it a leap of faith. It all fits, doesn't it? Think about it; we've already questioned Sachs' popularity as an artist and found it sadly lacking so how could he possibly hope to reproduce a piece and sell it a second, third, fourth time? It isn't his work he's selling, it's what he's hiding inside it!"


End file.
